Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (34 page)
Bridger lost his grip on one leg, and the beast used that leg to slash downward, striking the dragon’s face. Bridger cried out.
Cantor hopped in helpless rage.
He heard a rumble from the cavern. Half a dozen guards ran helter-skelter for cover as five irate dragons charged out of the entrance. Bixby followed with her knife drawn but no one to attack. Makki followed her, fairly bursting with fervor for the fight. He jumped around and yelled encouragement to the watch of dragons.
Cantor looked to the sky again and saw the dragons
hurtling upward toward the beast. Circling, they shot in one by one, landing stunning blow after stunning blow. At times, two would attack, one from above and one from the side. Bridger had a grip with both clawed hands on one of the beast’s legs. The other leg had been struck in the melee and now hung as if broken.
Bridger swung forward, lifting his hind legs and slicing at the beast’s chest. As he watched, Cantor saw the next swing would have a longer arch than the previous ones. Bridger kicked up and drove a claw into the creature’s neck. A squirt of blood shot out, and the beast faltered and went limp.
Cantor’s heart caught in his throat as beast and dragon fell toward the rocky terrain. Two of the dragons swooped in and grabbed the falling corpse. A third flew beneath. At just the right time, Bridger let go and landed on his sister’s back.
For a moment, Cantor wondered why his dragon friend had not let go and flown on his own.
Bridger’s sagging body told the tale. Cantor stretched his thoughts to his constant and learned the rest. Bridger was unconscious.
T
he dusty road wound down the hill and approached a large wall around Higtrap, the capital city of Derson. Standing at the crest, Dukmee examined his gray mage robes.
He looked over at his traveling companion, Chomountain, who had donned his most magnificent robes, with brilliant colors and flashy metallic embroidered designs on a dark green background. He used an elaborately carved staff so artistically contrived that the play of light and shadow on the animal figures and thick vegetation gave the appearance of movement.
Sweat trickled down Dukmee’s back, between his shoulder blades. His shirt clung to him. Dampness spread at the waistband of his trousers.
Why wasn’t Cho hot? Why wasn’t he, too, covered with the fine grit of the road? And why did all those they passed on this trade route ignore them?
Not that he minded. Being mistaken for a mundane mage never disturbed Dukmee. Nor did he mind the label of humdrum healer or stuffy scholar or routine realm walker. The fact that he was all of these and a bit more did make him extraordinary. Chomountain had called him a savant. He would admit to that. But being extraordinary got in the way of doing all the things he liked to do. People tended to want to talk about what he could do instead of letting him go off and do it.
Chomountain stepped off the road and sat on a large flat boulder, conveniently just the right height for a bench and located under a fragrant shade tree. The sweet smell came from large white blossoms, flowers as big as dinner plates. And the oversized, waxy dark green leaves rattled in the breeze with a very rhythmic clatter.
Dukmee blinked. A moment ago, there had been no tree and no bench, but he was growing used to such occurrences. Chomountain definitely possessed more skills, more highly developed skills, than he.
The two men sat on the rock and watched the people pass by.
“They don’t look at us.” Dukmee waved to a child, but the child did not respond.
“Two men taking their ease,” said Chomountain. “What’s to see?”
“I’d expect the children to come look at the pictures on your robes. They’re attractive.”
“Are you suggesting that I would lure them to my side?”
“No! But you must be doing something to make them ignore you.”
“I’m not doing anything. Surprisingly, people can be
surrounded by the glorious creation of Primen and not see it. Just as they don’t see the colors of my robe.”
A toddler, riding in a pouch on his mother’s back, cooed and waved tiny fists in the air. His merry eyes were locked on Dukmee’s companion.
Chomountain laughed, blew a kiss, and waved good-bye.
Puzzled, Dukmee could not let that pass. “He sees you.”
“The very young often do. But as they grow older . . .” Chomountain shook his head, looking sad. “Sometimes they don’t hear. I can introduce myself as Chomountain, and even though they know the significance of the suffix
mountain
, they don’t realize they are talking to the right hand of Primen.”
“Doesn’t that anger you?”
“It’s not my place to be angry. My work is to bless people, not curse them.” He stood and stretched. “The curator should be back from his midday meal now. We can gain entrance to the museum.”
“That’s what we were waiting for?”
Chomountain grabbed his staff from its resting place against the tree and tapped the end twice on the ground. “You had better stand.”
Dukmee stood. Chomountain tapped twice again. The tree and rock bench disappeared. Dukmee watched the people on the road. No one seemed to have noticed.
“How do you do that? How is it possible?”
“The principle is the same as your hampers. You put something inside the hamper, and it’s stored somewhere else in the universe. It’s not gone, just relocated temporarily. I merely do this with larger objects and without a physical hamper. The hamper is simply a prop, you see.”
Dukmee didn’t see, but he knew Cho well enough by now to sense further probes would get him no better answers.
They walked into town with no interference from the guards at the gate. No matter which way they turned, the crowds in the market town parted for them to pass. The people in front of them stepped aside without any apparent recognition of the two walking toward them. As Dukmee looked over his shoulder, he saw the people merge. He had the uncanny feeling that these people did not even know they had stepped aside to allow him and his traveling partner to pass.
Dukmee had never been to Higtrap before. The city had once been the agricultural center of this vast plain of rich soil. The Port of Ponduc had taken over that claim as more and more produce was shipped across the ocean to foreign countries. The Higtrap markets were said to have been reduced by half. If that were so, the crush of people, carts, and animals must have made life in the city miserable.
As they walked freely through the crowded marketplace, Dukmee eyed the wares for sale in the booths. He chuckled to himself as he thought of what Bixby’s reaction would be if she were with them. He hoped they would find Totobee-Rodolow and persuade the luxurious dragon to join their group once again.
Bridger’s sister delighted in shopping as much as Bixby did, though the mor dragon bought less frequently. She stored away design and color combinations and textures, which she later copied as she shape-shifted her body into various styles. She did enjoy acquiring necklaces and rings.
Cho guided them straight to the museum doors. The sign carved on one of the stone pillars supporting a porch overhang read “Artifacts of Antiquity.”
At the bottom of a wide set of steps, Cho stopped. He smiled as he surveyed the front of the building. “I helped gather some of the items in exhibits here.” He placed a hand on Dukmee’s shoulder. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be able to remember things.” His hands dropped to his sides as he stared down at the stone step before them. His head wagged from side to side in slow disgust. “Fish!”
Blowing out a blast of air, he put a foot on the first step, then withdrew it. He patted his beard, straightened his pointy hat, and twitched the folds of his robe. He then turned a critical eye on Dukmee.
“How did you get so dirty?” Cho followed his words with a flurry of activity. The old man slapped away the dust on Dukmee’s robe. He finger-combed the younger man’s hair, which instantly fell into neat locks. The last gesture toward restored decorum involved swiping his hand across Dukmee’s face.
His face felt wet. Dukmee repeated Cho’s final motion across his forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin. Not wet. But his skin no longer felt like sandpaper, dry and covered with grit.
“There you are.” Cho took Dukmee by the arm and walked with him up the stairs. “Now we’re both fit to be introduced to the head curator. Not Diggertommy — he died years ago. Current man’s named Hartenbar.”
They entered the building to find solemn silence, dim lighting, and cool but slightly stale air. Various items showed artistic talent in lighted glass cases or hanging on the walls under directed light.
Several people roamed the rooms. One man had three boys in tow and explained to them in a hushed voice the importance of the item they stood before. A very old woman
leaned on the arm of a younger version of herself as they moved to a bench where they could rest and look at a massive painting.
A man in curator robes came out of a side room. He altered his course the moment he saw Dukmee and Chomountain by the door.
“Welcome. I’m Curator Hartenbar.” His low, mellow voice hardly stirred the air. He gestured toward a raised table with an open book and a pen. “Are you first time visitors? We’d like you to sign our guest book.”
“I am,” said Dukmee, and went to leave his signature. The amount of information asked for surprised him.
Name, place of birth, date of birth, currently residing in, occupation.
For name, he put Dukmee R’Binion S’Cratmoor D’Latheren. He was born on Richra, and he decided that was all the authorities at the museum needed to know. He put the pen back in its holder and turned to see Cho clasping the curator’s hand as that man sputtered.
Chomountain smiled kindly. “Settle down, now. Collect yourself. I’m not in the least offended, and the pleasure is mine in making your acquaintance.”
With his complexion growing redder and redder, Curator Hartenbar shook Cho’s hand. Sweat poured down the small man’s forehead and off the nape of his neck, wetting his neat hair so it hung in spikes over his collar. He looked as if he’d faint.
Moving quickly so he could catch him if he should pass out, Dukmee took a position beside the curator. “Is something wrong?”
Grinning with great satisfaction, Chomountain nodded toward the curator. “We’ve found one!”
Dukmee raised his eyebrows. He searched his mind for an idea. To what did Cho refer? “The stone?”
“No.” He pulled one hand out of the man’s grasp and pointed to him. “He recognized me. It took him a second or two. But he sees the robes, and he sees me.”
Giving a slight bow in the curator’s direction, Dukmee spoke sympathetically. “He’s an eyeful, isn’t he? But we’ve got to find a certain stone, and we’re hoping you know where it might be.”
The man took a deep breath and seemed to be coming out of his stuttering awe of the right hand of Primen.
“Yes, yes, I’d be glad to help.”
Dukmee decided he’d do the talking. The man tended to quiver whenever he looked at Cho. “We’ve been to the ruins in Bright Valley.”
“The Whirl Temple.”
With effort, Dukmee damped down his excitement. The man was already aware of the background. He saw the curator’s confidence take hold.
“We are looking for a stone, actually two stones, but the archives say that one of the stones was taken to the Artifacts of Antiquity in Higtrap.”
The man was nodding. Could he possibly know where the stone was? Dukmee had assumed it would be shelved in some underground storage space beneath the museum.
The curator turned. “Follow me. We have an exhibit of the Whirl Movement. You’ll be interested in several of the artifacts.”
They walked past the old woman and her daughter. The curator turned a corner.
“Ah!” Cho clapped his hands together.
Dukmee suppressed the smile that came bubbling out of his astonishment. The walls were covered with drawings of the temple and the surrounding city as they must have looked before they became ruins. In glass-covered displays, many objects lay on rich materials to show off their fine points. Placards gave the particulars of each piece.
Curator Hartenbar crossed the room to a shadowbox display on the wall. “I believe this is the stone you are referring to.”