Dragon Stones Page 7

  At last, they emerged into open water. Gelt's target island loomed ahead of them, a hellish landscape of barren rock and smoke; but compared to where they had just come from, it looked like paradise. Two arms of the island curved outward, forming a small, sheltered cove. The oarsmen guided the boat into this unwelcoming harbor, but there was nowhere suitable for a landing; they dropped anchor in the center and set about preparing a large canoe.

  Ponn climbed down from the rigging. Gelt ignored him, moving from position to position, issuing instructions. Ponn trailed along behind him, and finally said: "You can't possibly go ashore here."

  Gelt did not favor him with a glance. "Of course we can."

  Ponn gestured at the unbroken black rock that surrounded the sapphire-blue water. "But there's nowhere to beach a canoe. It's nothing but stone!"

  "I'm not worried," Gelt said. "I'm sure you'll manage."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Adaran awakened from a nightmare with a stiff back, a dry throat, and no idea where he was. He sat up and looked blearily at his surroundings, remembering that he was hidden in the supply tent at Dosen's camp. The ability to sleep under adverse conditions was an important skill, but this time he had taken an enormous risk; he was not very well hidden, and could easily have been spotted if anyone had hankered for a bit of beef jerky, or if they had decided to break camp. Fortunately, his luck seemed to be holding for now.

  He peered at the tent flap. From the light filtering in, he guessed it was late afternoon. Apparently they were going to stay for at least one more day; perhaps they were still out there searching for him, while he dozed right under their noses. That provided a small amount of satisfaction, but didn't make up for the fact that he was still quite likely to perish out here.

  He shook his head. That sort of thinking was not going to help him escape. Slipping out of his hiding place, he began looking for something to keep him warm as he trekked out of the mountains; his cloak and tunic would not be sufficient against nights as cold as last. He'd hoped to see furs lying about, but no such luck; the men probably kept such things in their own tents, to insulate themselves from the chill. He picked up the blanket that had covered the girl's cage. Thin, but better than nothing. He folded it as small as he could and stuffed it into one of his many large pockets.

  And what about the girl? What had they done with her? He crept to the tent flap and peered out at the camp. Afternoon light slanted from the south, filtering through the tallest pines, stretching out the shadows. The temperature had dropped from earlier in the day, the air nipping at his face, promising another icy night among the dripping pines.

  Dosen's men—he counted five of them, gathered around the fire a few dozen yards down the slope—wore warm, if tattered, fur cloaks. The little girl's woven prison sat on the rock near the fire; he could see her inside, a tiny shadow, like a caterpillar inside its cocoon. If they were planning to feed her to the eagles, why would they bother putting her near the fire? What was she doing here?

  He withdrew into the tent, contemplating the odds. Five to one? Suicide. Dosen's henchmen were not the most competent fighters in the world, but neither was he. He might dazzle them for a while with his speed and agility, but eventually one of them would score a lucky thrust with a dull sword and it would be over.

  Whatever plans they had for the child, her fate was not his concern. He had to escape now, and take advantage of what was left of the light to get some distance down the mountain.

  Returning to the back of the tent, he slipped out through the slit he had cut earlier, sliding out onto the weathered, uneven stone.

  He froze.

  Scarcely ten feet away, a guard crouched at the edge of the ridge, breeches wadded at his feet, straining to relieve himself. No time to duck back into the tent. Adaran drew a throwing knife and flung it as the soldier looked his way. The man opened his mouth to cry out, but the blade struck his throat before he could make a sound; he toppled backward and vanished over the cliff.

  Shaken, Adaran pressed himself flat against the tent and waited, listening. Had anyone noticed what had just happened? Had they heard the guard fall? He didn't think so; no one came to investigate, no one called out.

  He had just decided it was safe to move again when someone said: "Looks like Dosen's coming back."

  Dosen? Coming back? Adaran crept to the edge of the shelter, peered at the henchmen. They were looking off to the northwest. He followed their gaze to a group of dark shapes, hanging low in the sky. Eagles. He counted at least five; he couldn't tell how many of them had riders, but Redshen had speculated that each eagle could hold two men. Dosen might be bringing in ten additional soldiers to help search for Adaran; or he might be coming to break down the camp and carry everything back to Dunshandrin.

  Adaran looked toward the fire again. The men had moved away from it, gawking at the sky, leaving the little girl more or less unattended.

  Now.

  He dashed out from behind the tent, loping silently along the stones. He snatched up the net by its leather handle, pivoted, and fled to the edge of the steep, rocky, jagged slope on the western side of the ridge. He could see the body of the man he had just killed, wedged into a fissure where a great boulder had begun to shear away from the mountain. Too bad he didn't have time to retrieve his knife.

  The little girl had begun to whimper; crying was probably imminent. There was no time for subtlety, or even to pick a likely route down the slope. Instead he flung the net over his shoulder, leapt off the edge, and started running. He bounded from rock to rock, maintaining a precarious balance on the steeply angled mountainside. He reached the tree line and plunged into the wall of pines, heedless of the slapping branches and jabbing needles; then he slowed down and cut to the right, moving at an angle through the forest. This direction led deeper into the mountains, but the cover seemed thicker, and Dosen would likely expect him to head in the opposite direction.

  The girl, who had been fairly quiet until now, suddenly began screaming and beating on his shoulder with her little fists. He stopped, panting, and held her up in front of his face. She lay in the bottom of the sack, curled up as if she were in a hammock; but she was glaring at him with big, dark, suspicious eyes, as if she expected him to throw her off a cliff. "I won't hurt you," he said. "I rescued you from those men. They're bad men."

  She snuffled, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand, but she didn't say anything or give any sign that she understood. What language did she speak?

  "I'm Adaran," he said, tapping himself on the chest. Then he pointed at her. "Do you have a name?"

  Silence.

  "If I let you out of there, do you promise not to run off?"

  She just looked at him. He rubbed the back of his head. That was a stupid question; of course she would run off. Then she would get lost in the mountains and freeze to death, if she didn't get eaten by some wild animal first. Perhaps she would have been better off if he'd left her for Dosen to carry off.

  Well, too late to worry about that.

  "I have to leave you in there a little while longer," he said, "but I'll try not to bounce you around so much anymore."

  No answer, of course. He put her net over his shoulder again and resumed walking, moving at a less frantic pace than before.

  Some time later, as the light began to fail, Adaran started looking for a relatively safe place to spend the night. He chose a tree that looked suitably sturdy, hooked his arm through the leather strap of the girl's sack and slid it up to his shoulder, and started to climb. Having the extra weight on his back unbalanced him somewhat, but he still managed to get a good distance off the ground and find a bough to wedge himself into. He positioned the woven cage in front of himself, then covered them both with the blanket.

  It looked like his ability to sleep in bad situations would be coming in handy once again.

  In addition to Pyodor Ponn, the canoe carried Gelt and two of his henchmen, Tolsus and Horm; it also carried a number of large, heavy-looki
ng sacks. Ponn eyed the sacks, wondering if Gelt believed in tales of dragon hoard, gold and jewels stolen from fallen empires throughout the ages. Did he think to carry off gilded candlesticks and silver mirrors?

  The mercenaries and their leader settled into the canoe, watching Ponn as the sailors lowered the small craft into the water; evidently he was expected to do all the work. He picked up an oar and proffered it to Gelt, who sat nearest him. "The person in front has to row, too, or we'll just go in circles."

  Gelt took the oar and passed it forward to Tolsus, who passed it to Horm. He accepted it with bad grace and clumsily dipped it into the water. Obviously the man had no skill in paddling, but all he had to do was provide momentum; Ponn would steer from the back.

  Tolsus tested the water with a finger, then stuck his hand in the lagoon. "Feels like a hot bath," he said.

  "When have you ever had a hot bath?" Horm said.

  "Your mother gave me one last week."

  Horm glared over his shoulder, then slapped the oar into the water, splashing steaming water over the three of them. "That's enough," Gelt snapped.

  "But he—"

  "I said that's enough. Anyway, I've seen your mother, and I wouldn't let her bathe me unless she had a bag over her head."

  Horm harrumphed. He turned away and resumed paddling, more forcefully now, so they made faster progress across the sour, steaming water of the lagoon. While Gelt scanned the rocks, no doubt looking for a place to beach the canoe, Ponn glanced back at his ship. Under the direction of Gelt's third henchman, the Enshennean sailors were bringing up the birds from below. The creatures looked decidedly unhappy; their feathers were damp and ruffled, their beaks open, their breathing rapid. They darted glances this way and that as the men led them to the railings and tied them up. Perhaps they smelled the dragons, and wanted to get away from the island; if so, they had more sense than their masters.

  Suddenly Gelt pointed at something and said: "There."

  Ponn followed the line of the man's finger and spotted a small creek that spilled over the twisted jags of rock, emptying into the lagoon. The rill had created a narrow crevice in the black stone. Ponn turned them toward it; when they reached the gap, he told Horm to stop paddling, a command that was instantly obeyed. Ponn guided them into the opening, like a ship entering a berth. Stone scraped against the sides of the canoe as they pulled it into the shallows, coming to rest at the base of the small waterfall.

  Gelt eyed the cliff where the water came down, and said: "Looks like we'll have to do some climbing." He gave Ponn a meaningful look.

  Ponn sighed and got out of the canoe, examining the rough black stone. He had spent his childhood scaling rock like this in his bare feet; it was easier to climb without shoes, when your soles and toes could feel the lay of the rock, but it had been a long time since he had done so and the callouses that used to protect his skin had long since softened and disappeared. He paced up and down, the water hot around his calves, looking for the best place to attack the wall. He selected a spot where the rocks were not so jagged, the handholds relatively plentiful; the climb proved brief and easy, and soon he was at the top, waiting for the others to follow the route he had chosen.

  As Gelt and his men grunted and strained their way up the short cliff, Ponn wandered away from the edge, looking at the landscape. It had been many years since he had been on one of these islands, and while their details constantly changed, their entirety always stayed the same. Twisted stone in ebony and crystal; wisps of steam rising from cracks and hot spots; pockets of young, fragile-looking vegetation. He lifted his gaze to the cone itself, across the upward-sloping lava plain. The stream no doubt flowed from it, forced out of the depths by heat and pressure. The volcano was not all that impressive, neither particularly tall nor particularly steep, but it was broad and shrouded in whitish-grey vapor. He scrutinized the slope, searching for any trace of the dragon that had passed by earlier, but saw no activity. Perhaps he had been right, and the creature was departing the region.

  "Innkeeper!"

  Ponn turned. Gelt had reached the lip of the lava plain, stretching out a bloodied hand. "Help me up," he said.

  Ponn grasped the man's wrist and hauled him to the top. "The damned stone cut through my glove," he said, looking Ponn up and down, evidently inspecting him for cuts or abrasions. "I see you're not hurt."

  "Perhaps the island knows its own," Ponn said.

  "I think it's just that you savages have thick skin."

  Tolsus arrived next, uninjured, but Horm was bleeding from both hands and his knee, where the stone had torn a hole in his breeches. He rinsed his injuries in the warm water of the stream, cursing Ponn, the island, and his companions as he did so. Meanwhile, Gelt sidled up to Ponn. "We will follow the stream to the mountain," he said. "The ground will likely be cooler along it. Does that sound like a good idea, innkeeper?"

  "It's no worse than many other ideas I've heard this day."

  "Lead on, then."

  They walked slowly alongside the creek. The vapor from it grew thicker as they progressed; finally they came to its source, a split in the lava rock, as Ponn had suspected. The water bubbled furiously through the opening, accompanied by malodorous fumes, like rotting eggs left too long in the sun.

  "Makes me want to take a piss," Tolsus said, eyeing the burbling fountain. He dropped his trousers and did just that, urinating a thin stream onto the rocks. As he did so, a minor tremor shook the earth, rumbling down from the cone and across the island. "What was that?" Tolsus said, wide-eyed.

  "Just the voice of the mountain," Ponn said.

  "Is it going to erupt?"

  "Who can say? Perhaps it is angry at you for defiling it."

  "Don't listen to the savage and his superstitions," Gelt said. "The island can no more be angry than a rock or a tree."

  The ground shook again. No mistaking it; this island was alive beneath their feet.

  Sounding a shade less cocksure, Gelt said: "Finish up, and no more stops until we get what we came for. Innkeeper, we're going north. That way."

  Tolsus quickly tied up his pants and they started walking again, Ponn out in front, watching for crevices and patches of uncertain ground. The terrain grew rougher as the land sloped upward, the heat of the earth penetrating the thick soles of his sandals.

  The route Gelt had chosen led them to the foot of a near-vertical wall of jagged rock at least three times as tall as Ponn. It tumbled over itself like a cataract locked in stone. Ponn looked at Gelt, and saw that the man was removing a length of thick rope from his backpack. Strips of leather had been woven into it, making it stronger and more resistant to cuts and fraying, but also heavier.

  "What's that for?" Ponn said.

  "You." Gelt handed it to him. "Tie it off when you get to the top, and toss it down to us."

  Ponn looked at the rope, then at Gelt, then at the obstacle that rose before them. "You knew this cliff was here," he said.

  "Of course I knew. Do I seem like the sort who would be caught unprepared?"

  "And the lagoon? The stream?"

  "Those too."

  "You've been here before."

  "No. I had a man fly out and do reconnaissance."

  "Why did you need me, then? Why take my ship? Why take my daughter? Why not just fly on your accursed birds, and leave me out of it?"

  "You ask too many questions, innkeeper," Gelt said. "I thought men in your trade were supposed to be discreet. Now, climb."

  Resigned, Ponn draped the rope around his neck and eyed the precipice. The stones were somewhat weathered, not so jagged as those by the stream; but the wall was much higher, a tumble more costly. He moved back and forth, trying to find the most hospitable spot; finally Gelt said: "Get on with it."

  Ponn glanced at him. "Do you want to reach the top, or do you want to fall and dash your brains out? If you say you want to fall, this will be much easier."

  "That sort of attitude will not get your daughter back."

  No, he
supposed it wouldn't. Chastened, Ponn removed his sandals and tucked them into his garment, then selected the most promising spot and started to climb. He worked his way up the crag, hoping there would not be another tremor; he silently thanked the mountain when he reached the top safely. Stepping away from the edge, he eyed the tilted, cracked shelf on which he now stood. It seemed stable enough, but not as wide as he would have liked; the cone loomed overhead, seeming much larger now.

  There were plenty of rugged stone fingers to which he could tie the rope. He selected a sturdy-looking one, making a knot that would tighten under load, and then tossed the rope down to the others. As they started to climb, one by one, he moved closer to the volcano, hoping for a bit of shade; even he was starting to suffer from the heat, the humidity, the sulfurous air. He found a small overhang and settled beneath it, waiting. The mountain thrummed constantly here, a low vibration that shivered through his body, as if he were filled with swarming bees.

  At last, Gelt appeared at the top of the cliff, puffing and grunting. He hauled himself over the edge, rolled onto his back, and lay there for a few minutes; then he turned over and joined Ponn in the shade. "Almost there, innkeeper," he said. "You are doing well."

  Ponn couldn't resist asking. "Almost where?"

  Gelt grinned at him, then went to help Horm, whose climbing was hampered by his injured hand. Soon Tolsus joined them as well. After a brief rest, the three men moved along the ledge to the west, circling the cone. Ponn followed behind, his guidance no longer required.

  Eventually they reached a hundred-foot cliff, a sheer drop to the frothing, gnashing sea. Had they come all this way only to reach a dead end? But once again Gelt knew the terrain; an even narrower shelf continued from here, angling sharply up to the right. It led to a hole in the mountain, a narrow vent that had once spewed magma into the ocean below, gobs of molten rock that had solidified in the water like dumplings in stew.