Crossroads 04 - The Dragon Isles (27 page)

 
          
“What’s
wrong?” asked a distant voice, sounding vaguely like thunder.

 
          
Mik
blinked, and the bronze-helmeted face of Shimmer came into focus before him.

 
          
“Are
you all right?” the knight asked.

 
          
“I’m
fine,” Mik said. “Let’s keep going. I just had an idea, that’s all.”

 
          
“An idea about what?”
Shimmer asked.

 
          
“That
pyramid,” Mik said, pointing. “I think it may be connected to our goal,
somehow.”

 
          
“That
pyramid is one of the great libraries.”

 
          
“Wisdom’s highest throne,” Mik said quietly.

           
“Part of the Prophecy, eh?” Shimmer
replied. “Well, it’s possible.”

 
          
“Let’s
go,” Mik said.

 
          
The
bronze knight nodded, and they walked up the slope once more.

 
          
Long
minutes later, they crested the hill and gazed across the plateau of the
Dragonheights.
Before them stretched the colossal plaza of
the monuments.
To Mik it seemed like an immense graveyard: nothing
moved, no breeze disturbed the air, no smells wafted to his nose, nothing broke
the eerie silence. The monuments—marble shapes, metal creatures, crystal
plants, and glistening abstracts in every imaginable combination—towered over
Mik and Shimmer, but seemed distant and unreal at the same time. It was as
though the treasure hunters gazed at an immense still-life painting rather than
a real place.

 
          
“Where
are the people?” Mik asked. “Why isn't anything moving?”

 
          
“It's
the magic,” Shimanloreth replied. “Look there.”

 
          
Mik
looked and saw
a
aristocrat in fancy dress, frozen in
mid step. Nearer by, a hooded woman had just topped the cliff face. She, too,
hung rooted to the spot: unmoving, unbreathing.

 
          
“Are
they
.. .
dead
?” Mik asked.

 
          
“No,”
Shimmer replied. “But the dragons don't want them here. The enchantment has
frozen them in time. A nasty surprise for that thief,” he said, indicating the
hooded woman.

 
          
“Let's
hope the enchantment doesn't catch us as well,” Mik said.

 
          
“It
may. There's only one way to find out.” The bronze knight stepped boldly into
the plaza.

 
          
As
he did, blue sparks blazed around his armored form. He paused, as though
pushing against an unseen barrier. Then he lurched forward again veiy slowly,
as though he were walking underwater. He motioned Mik to follow, but if he
spoke, the sailor could not hear him.

 
          
Mik
placed his foot upon the mosaic at the plaza's edge.

 
          
The
sailor's skin caught fire, and his senses whirled. He staggered forward, as
though he were walking through molasses. Every step became harder. He felt as
if he were at the nadir of a long dive, the ocean pressing in on every part of
his body.
So much pressure.

 
          
His
limbs began to tingle as though asleep. He blinked. It took forever for his
eyelids to descend, and even longer for them to rise again.

 
          
Instinctively,
Mik reached toward his belt pocket, where the emerald artifact lay.

 
          
Very
slowly, his fingers crept forward.

 
          
Close.

 
          
So
close.

 
          
Contact.

 
          
Fire
burned through his body again. The magical blaze fought against the
pressure—nearly tearing him apart.

 
          
The
next moment, it ended.

 
          
Mik
doubled over, sweating profusely, his guts in a knot.

 
          
“Are
you all right?” Shimmer’s deep voice asked.

 
          
“Fine,”
Mik gasped, struggling to his feet

 
          
“For
a moment, I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Shimmer said. “Your
willpower must be very strong.”

 
          
“I
guess,” Mik said, fighting down a wave of nausea. “Where’s the library?”

 
          
“Not
far, as dragons measure it.”

 
          
“How
about as sailors measure it?”

 
          
“A fair walk.”

 
          
Mik
bowed slightly, and swept his right arm forward.
“After you.”

 
          
The
knight and the sailor walked toward the distant pyramid. They’d hardly gone a
dozen steps, though, when a huge copper dragon dropped out of the sky and
barred their way.

 
          
He
opened his enormous maw and hissed, “Halt, trespassers!”

Plans & Schemes &
Spies

 
         
Benthor
Kell strode down the streets of Thrakton as if he owned the place— which, in
one sense, he did. Thrakton, a tidy and well- ordered city, was the largest
town on the
island
of
Berann
. Most of its buildings had been newly built
or renovated. The style of architecture throughout was simple, utilitarian, and
uncluttered. The fortress of the order reflected this Spartan style. Its
cyclopean walls loomed over the streets, looking both protective and
intimidating at the same time. The city’s location at the head of the isle’s
only deep water harbor, at the mouth of Berann’s main river, made it an ideal
headquarters for the Order of Brass.

 
          
Benthor
and Misa Kell ran the Order, and therefore the town as well. Everyone was
aware, though, that all humans lived on the island only with the sufferance of
Berann’s dragons.

 
          
Thracktil
the Fierce, a huge, ancient brass dragon, was true lord of the island. He
seldom appeared in public, though, because of his advancing years. Younger
dragons, like his nephew Thrakdar, remained in charge of day-today affairs.

 
          
Thrakdar
liked to keep a close claw on the business of Thrakton, and the Order of Brass
in particular. He had founded the Order as a kind of private police force,
after the departure of the good dragons from Ansalon. When he could not tend to
affairs personally, he frequently sent his consort Tanalish. She was the dragon
who usually flew escort for the Kells’ trireme. She watched over them,
sometimes scouting ahead and frequently reporting back to her lord and mate.

 
          
One
didn’t need dragon wings, though, to spread the news of Misa Kell’s wounding
through Thrakton. Word of her plight ran through the streets like wildfire.
Tanalish had alerted the Order to expect casualties, but none of them guessed
that the wounded would be their own beloved lady.

 
          
The
Order mobilized quickly, bringing all their considerable healing skills to bear
on the wounded woman. Soon concern in the ranks gave way to anger. Though Misa
had been wounded in a lawful duel, many brass warriors spoke openly of hunting
down and slaying the perpetrator of this terrible deed.

 
          
Benthor
Kell threatened to severely punish anyone who broke ranks and carried out such
a vendetta. Publicly he claimed that such feuds were bad for discipline, which
was an essential element of the Order. Privately, he himself hoped to pay back
Ula Drakenvaal.

 
          
His
sister’s grave condition added to Kell’s sour mood as he walked the narrow
streets of Thrakton. He strode away from the Order’s fortress and toward the
pier where his brasssided trireme lay anchored. Benthor clutched his coral lance
tightly in his fist, nodded curdy to those who greeted him, and growled quick
orders to those under his command.

 
          
Karista
Meinor walked with him, hurrying to keep pace. The aristocrat had acquired new,
fashionable clothes during her short stay in town. Now she was in serious
danger of dragging her hems through the muddy street. Because of her tenuous
position in Kell’s favor, she didn’t ask the lord to slow down.

 
          
“Capturing
this treasure will not make up for my sister’s wounding,” Kell said.

 
          
Karista
smiled at him pleasantly. “I did not offer the treasure as a remedy,
milord—merely as a token of my good faith in our future ventures. Surely you do
not want Ula and her friends to gain these riches.”

 
          
“Of
course not,” Kell shot back. “But my operatives have lost track of the
Landwalker and her friends.”

 
          
“A
minor inconvenience that I’m certain you can surmount,” Karista said.

 
          
Kell
nodded. “My associates in Darthalla have sent reports that the trio has left
the city—and they have not been seen since.”

 
          
“We
know the elf and her friends are clever,” Karista said, “but we also know they
are looking for the treasure. They cannot remain hidden forever.”

 
          
“Perhaps,”
Kell replied.
“Though that sea witch may have resources
unknown to us.”
He clenched his brass- mailed fist tight. “If only the
cursed kender had not stolen the first key! My people have scoured the seas
around Jaentarth, but found no sign of it—or the kender’s body.”

 
          
“The
kender will seek his friends, and they will seek him,” Karista said. “I’m sure
you can use your . . . influence to locate
diem
.” The
aristocrat glanced from Lord Kell to the clouds high overhead.

 
          
Kell
took the suggestion. “Yes,” he said, glancing toward the mountainous lair of
his dragon allies. Atop the distant peaks, the mysterious brass pyramids
glistened in the afternoon sun.

 
          
“Thrakdar’s
people can turn them up,” Kell said. “Above the waves or below, these rogues
can’t hide from the Order of Brass. We’ll set course for their last known
location and await word from my operatives. Our communications move with the
speed of dragon wings. These sorry treasure hunters won’t elude us for long.”

 
          
Kell
and Karista stopped on the pier alongside the lord’s brass-scaled galley. His
crew extended the gangplank and Lord Kell hoarded the trireme with Karista
Meinor at his side.