Chalice 2 - Dream Stone (53 page)

Ships, the beasts had said. The packs had
rolled a fleet’s worth of halvskips through the tunnels to Mor
Sarff, anticipating a great battle.

Caerlon, they’d also said, the name coming up
again and again, revealing Rhuddlan’s foe and the cause of so much
calamity. Tuan’s court-mage, the twisted fool who had killed his
king’s people, had apparently not partaken of the draught himself.
Clever Caerlon.

Yet not so clever and far worse than foolish
to have used his skills to break the Prydion enchantment on the
crystal seals. What did he hope to gain by unleashing such
destruction on the earth? Rhuddlan wondered.

As to the nature of the spells he’d used,
Rhuddlan had only one guess—the
Elhion Bhaas Le
. With the
Indigo Book of Elfin Lore and five hundred years to study it, even
a half-taught mage like Caerlon could have set a blight on
Riverwood and conjured another army’s worth of skraelings
and—conceivably—cracked the damson shafts holding the earth against
Dharkkum and destroyed the enchantments binding the Troll King in
stone.

Aye, but mayhaps the fool’s cleverest deed
had been keeping the Indigo Book hidden from Ailfinn for five
centuries.

She had been there. Rhuddlan could see signs
of her in the Eye of the Dragon, the Troll King’s court. Stone did
not speak to him as it had to Tuan, but the mage’s presence and her
power had left marks on the rock. Caerlon would not have taken her
without a battle, and the walls and pillars in the Eye were flashed
with fire scars underscored with a brilliant vermilion
luminescence, Ailfinn’s signature blend of metallic vapors.

He turned to Wei. “Do they know of any
prisoners?”

“They had one,” Wei said, his voice tight.
“Shay. But they say he died on the trek to Rastaban. He shouldn’t
have died, Rhuddlan. The boy was not sorely wounded when the
skraelpack cut him off from the rest of us. They say their captain
delivered the body to Caerlon.”

Despite the grievous note of the tidings,
Rhuddlan felt a flicker of hope. He remembered Caerlon’s habits,
and from the look in Wei’s eye, so did the elf-man; and any who
remembered Slott’s penchant for
tylwyth teg
would know the
only way to get an elfin boy by the Troll King would be as carnage,
real or faked.

“If he lives, time can heal the other,” he
told Wei. The Liosalfar nodded in agreement, though anger hardened
his gaze.

“And Ailfinn?” Rhuddlan asked.

“They’ve seen no one else, but many of them
were called to Rastaban barely a month past. Some have only been
here a fortnight.”

Rhuddlan stepped to the nearest pillar, a
granite column a full twelve feet around incised with serpentine
scales. He laid his hand on the long fire scar flashed up its
length. ’Twas as cold as the stone it marked. Ailfinn’s fire was
powerful
magica
, burning two days at full strength before
beginning to wane, the heat of it lasting much longer. That the
vermilion-edged soot retained no detectable warmth meant at least a
month had passed since she’d been in the Eye, and mayhaps much
longer—too much longer.

“The dungeons?” he asked.

“We’ve found naught in ’em so far, but
there’s three levels, and the Liosalfar are still searching.” ’Twas
Owain speaking.

“Four levels,” a voice said from behind Wei,
and Varga stepped forward out of the pillar’s shadow. “ ’Twas
rumored during the Wars that Rastaban possessed an oubliette, a
‘forgotten place’ carved out of its darkest depths. If it exists,
it would lie on a level separate from the other cells.”

“Did the rumors say where these dark depths
were? Or tell of a path?” Rhuddlan asked. Varga had come with them
willingly, knowing he couldn’t be left in Carn Merioneth except
under heavy guard. For himself, Rhuddlan had seen him fight, and
the Sha-shakrieg was welcome as an extra sword.

“Only that ’twas a well-hidden cold box and
that none had ever escaped it or come out of it alive. The
Sha-shakrieg feared it almost as much as they feared Rhuddlan of
the Quicken-tree.”

A cold box, Rhuddlan thought with disgust,
ignoring Varga’s wryly delivered praise. Given the nature of a
troll’s appetite, ’twas not surprising no
tylwyth teg
had
ever ascended in one piece. That Slott and his brood might have
eaten their allies with the same gusto as their enemies was oddly
unsurprising.

He looked to the ceiling of the Eye. Smoke
was collecting in its corners, thickening even as they stood there.
Soon ’twould taint all the air in Rastaban, the hall and the
tunnels alike, and begin taking its toll on his soldiers.

He shifted his gaze to the pillar and the
flash-mark traced ’round with vermilion. Ailfinn had been there,
and might yet be in Rastaban. No matter how faint the possibility,
it took the decision out of his hands. He could not leave the Troll
King’s demesne while there was a chance the Prydion Mage was locked
somewhere in its depths. For certes Wei was not leaving without
overturning a few boulders in search of Shay.

He checked the smoke again and estimated
’twould be half a day before they would have to retreat. Yet he
dared not hold his army that long with Caerlon sailing down the
Serpent Sea toward the Weir Gate.

“Treilo,” he called to the Lord of the
Wydden, and gestured for the others to leave him.

A man clad all in gray broke from the ranks
and gave Varga a long look. Tall and lean like a Quicken-tree, the
man had blond hair with a distinct reddish cast. He’d been in the
Wars and still showed the brand of the bia-steeped thread that had
caught him across the face.

“You’ll take the troops to the gates of
time,” Rhuddlan said when Treilo reached his side. “Two forced
marches through Riverwood will see you there. Tell Llyr of the
ships and Caerlon. If the Dockalfar and skraelings are not already
at his throat, they soon will be. When you reach Riverwood, send a
runner to Carn Merioneth. Of the three clan-troops left to guard
the keep, have two descend. If we can’t hold the Weir Gate, we’ll
not hold Merioneth.”

The Wydden lord nodded his assent. “And you,
lord?”

“Wei, Owain, the Sha-shakrieg, and I will
search for the oubliette.” Although his word was law, Varga was
safer with him than with a troop of
tylwyth teg
, many of
whom had served in the Wars.

Treilo gave the smoke on the ceiling a brief
assessing glance and returned his gaze to Rhuddlan. “Be sure and
watch your back.”

“And you yours. There may yet be skraelpacks
in the tunnels or awaiting you in Riverwood.”

“Aye,” Treilo acknowledged, hesitating a
moment before continuing. “I fought by your side in the Wars,
Rhuddlan, but we’ve neither one of us dealt with this.”

“ ’Tis why we need Ailfinn, and why I’m
staying to find her.”

“We need more than Ailfinn,” the other man
said succinctly. A faintly purple line ran through the eyebrow he
lifted in question. The bia scar ran onto his eyelid and continued
diagonally across his nose and cheek to his jaw. In the other
direction it crossed his forehead before disappearing into a sleek
fall of reddish blond hair.

Rhuddlan met his eyes, unwavering. “Have Naas
light her fire. If the Druid boy doesn’t come out of the ice, I
will call Ddrei Goch and Ddrei Glas.”

The Wydden was still unsatisfied. “It’s been
more than fifteen years since the dragons have broken the waves of
Mor Sarff, Rhuddlan, and this is war, not the normal cycle of the
dragons’ lives.”

“Aye,” Rhuddlan said, sharpening his gaze.
“Out with it then.”

“You are a dragon keeper, lord, but will they
fight for you? This is what the other elfin lords ask. And what of
the Magia Blade?”

Rhuddlan knew what the lords asked. He’d
asked himself the same questions a hundred times since he’d
returned from the Dangoes to Merioneth and found Mychael gone. He’d
yet to come up with an answer to the first. No one had fought with
the dragons since Stept Agah. The way of it had been lost to time.
Ailfinn would know, if she could be found, for the dragons were of
the Prydions’ making, or mayhaps Naas had seen a way somewhere in
the past of bending them to his will, but that was no assurance
that he would succeed.

As to the Blade, there would be no
druaight
sword for him or any other warrior to wield. The
truth of that had awaited him in Rastaban.

“I fear Deseillign is falling,” he said to
Treilo. “The smoke is coming in strongest from the passages opening
onto the Rift. The desert must be choking in it, and with the
desert lost, so are the forges of the Sha-shakrieg. There will be
no Edge of Sorrow for us to put to a dreamstone hilt.”

The Wydden lord agreed with a curt nod,
revealing that he, too, had drawn the same conclusion, but he would
have an answer to his other question. “And the dragons?”

“They were ever beasts of war,” Rhuddlan
conceded, “and with Dharkkum arising, they’ll have the bit between
their teeth. If Mychael ab Arawn hasn’t survived the Dangoes, and
if I can’t bring them to heel—
and
if we defeat Dharkkum”—his
mouth curved in a chiding grin—“then you’ll have years of glory
ahead of you, fighting dragons.” He reached out and rested his hand
on the Wydden lord’s shoulder. “Safeguard the Weir Gate, Treilo.
’Tis the crux. We’ll be no more than a half day behind you.”

Treilo held his gaze but a moment before
making his obeisance, and he held the bow he made before his lord a
moment longer than he’d held Rhuddlan’s gaze—a wise decision.

Without waiting for Treilo to begin his
march, or even to rise from his bow, Rhuddlan signaled for Wei,
Owain, and Varga to follow him up the giant’s staircase on the east
side of the great hall.

Caerlon’s solar had been gone through and
naught of great interest had been found, except for a pile of worn
and dirty clothes. Wei took one sniff of the rags and declared the
owner.

“Caradoc.”

“Christ’s bones,” Owain swore, striding
forward and stabbing the pile with the point of his sword. He
lifted a tunic and bared his teeth. “So the wormhole spit him out,
did it? I would have a go at the bastard, aye, and I think I’ll
string him up before I bloody the whoreson with my blade. What say
you, Varga? Do ye have any of those wicked threads to spare?”

“For Caerlon’s ally? Yes.” The Sha-shakrieg
smiled beneath his gauze coverings. Varga never took the bandages
off, not completely, only arranged them differently for eating, or
to add warmth, or to shield his eyes. In this he was no different
from any of the spider people. The starshine of Deseillign burned
with a force that sank deep into exposed skin, making it far wiser
to stay covered. Desert city dwellers enjoyed more freedom from the
need of bandages, but Varga was a man of the sand, Varga of the
Iron Dunes, and his cautions were well ingrained.

“Come,” Rhuddlan said, turning away from the
solar above the Troll King’s court. “We have our task before us and
not much time to see it done.”

They met the Liosalfar doing a final check on
the first level, and Rhuddlan sent them on their way to join
Treilo. The four of them split up then, Wei and Varga checking
cells and tunnels to the north, Rhuddlan and Owain descending into
the warren of the lower dungeons via a long curve of stairs.

Cell by stinking cell they worked their way
through the levels. Owain checked every seam and crack in the rock.
If any had ever wondered where Rastaban’s privies were, Owain and
Rhuddlan found them. The Quicken-tree man gave Owain a length of
cloth to bind over his nose and mouth to help stem the stench.

Finding naught on the second level, they went
down to the next. At the bottom of the stairs, a wide corridor
opened to the south. Fouled rushes littered the floor. Owain’s
torch had guttered itself, and Rhuddlan set a new one alight for
him with his dreamstone.

“Check the cells on the east side,” he told
Owain. “I’ll go down the west.”

“Aye,” Owain said, his voice a muffled grunt
beneath the cloth.

Rhuddlan turned to the west, and Owain
entered the first eastside cell, crossing himself as he did.

“Bloody skraelings,” he muttered, crossing
himself again. For extra measure he moved his fingers in a warding
sign he’d learned at his mother’s knee in Denbigh in northern
Wales. Denbigh’s priest had taught him a few others, the man being
more Celtic than Catholic, and Owain used them all as he worked his
way down the cells. Grim tortures had taken place in the dark
holes. Rusted fetters and gyves were bolted to the walls and
floors. Barbed chains with dangling hooks hung from the ceilings.
Fire pits had been dug in some, and charred bones were to be found
in their ashes. A broken rack testified to one cell’s past.

Toward the end of the passage, sweat broke
out on Owain’s brow, and an eerie, tingling sensation crept along
his skin, making the hairs rise.

“Hold on, man. Hold on,” he cautioned himself
in a low whisper. He’d seen many a strange and ofttimes wondrous
thing since joining up with the Quicken-tree. God’s truth, though,
in his whole life and countless battles he’d not seen anything as
gruesome as the offal sumps and dungeons of Rastaban.

He dragged his torch over the back wall of a
cell and found nothing. When he entered the last cell in the block,
the eerie sensation heightened to an alarming degree.

Rhuddlan was far behind him in the passage,
working more slowly, which gave Owain pause. If something awful was
going to happen of a sudden, or if he was going to see a troll the
likes of Slott, he’d as soon have Rhuddlan close by. Ever since the
Liosalfar had brought word of the Troll King, Owain had felt a
special dread at the thought of the Thousand Skulled One. In all
his life, he’d never imagined anything like the
pryf
, but
he’d imagined trolls quite clearly as a wee lad, and he was
shamefully afeared of ’em.