Kazin's Quest: Book I of The Dragon Mage Trilogy (12 page)

“They were members of dishonoured families living outside the mountain,” said Harran.

“So the minotaur saved some dishonoured dwarves,” sneered Manhar. “What did he save them from? Tripping over their beards?”

“We saved them from some lizardmen and a lizardmage,” growled Harran. He wasn’t impressed with the general’s attitude.

Manhar tilted his head back and laughed. “This is getting more believable all the time!”

“It’s true!” cried Harran. “If you don’t believe me, the king will. I’m one of his leading map makers!”

Manhar signalled his men and they removed the net from the prisoners. Then he walked up to Harran and opened the pouch at Harran’s side. Pulling out several maps, he began to examine them.

“Hey!” cried Harran, snatching them back. “These are for the king’s eyes only!”

“It looks like you really are a map maker,” said Manhar, unfazed by Harran’s defensive reaction.

“Do you believe me now?” said Harran angrily.

“That is for the king to decide,” said Manhar.

“In that case, you’d better keep the minotaur alive until we get to the bottom of this,” said Harran. “If the king finds out you killed a prisoner without his consent, you’ll wind up on the dishonoured list along with the dwarves the minotaur helped rescue.”

A war of emotions crossed Manhar’s face. “Very well,” he said at last. “But tell me, why are you so interested in saving the minotaur’s life?”

“He saved mine,” said Harran, “and I’m honour bound to repay that debt.”

This seemed to satisfy the general. Zylor was quickly strapped to a makeshift stretcher and Manhar led his men and Harran to the temporary base of operations which was only a few minutes away. On arrival, the ten soldiers carrying the minotaur put the stretcher down with relief. By their expressions, they would rather have disposed of the minotaur, but the general told them otherwise. They had no choice but to follow orders. Zylor was still unconscious. Manhar issued some commands and ten replacements came out and lifted the stretcher.

“Where are we going?” asked Harran.

“To see the king,” responded Manhar. Without another word he led them into the heart of the compound and up a flight of stairs to a large, flat platform. The struggling soldiers grunted under the strain of carrying the huge minotaur up the stairs. When they were all assembled on the platform, Manhar withdrew a square blue medallion from under his coat and dropped it in front of him. The moment it hit the floor there was a bright flash and the sound of thousands of tiny bells. In the next moment they were no longer in the compound but in the outer courtyard of the king’s palace in Valdorf, the dwarven capital.

Slowly, Manhar bent over and picked up the medallion, putting it back under his coat. “Saves time, doesn’t it?” he said to Harran. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to his soldiers. “Take the minotaur to a cell.”

The soldiers quickly marched in the direction of the cells, eager to get rid of their heavy load. “And you,” said Manhar, turning his attention back to Harran, “you’re going to have the pleasure of meeting his majesty. Immediately!”

Chapter 11

T
he courtyard gave way to a large hall branching off in three different directions. Each route was lined with torches on both sides. The floor, ceiling and walls were made of smooth cobblestones cut precisely to the right shape and size. The tight fitting stones prevented any water or stray air currents from seeping through. Even sound had no choice but to bounce from wall to wall, making their footsteps seem outrageously loud. Manhar led the way through the central hall and up two flights of stairs. Along each side of the stairs were paintings of great battles depicting enormous fire breathing dragons at war with men, elves and dwarves. Shining brilliantly on one painting was a giant, white ice dragon, whose frosty breath hung below him. In his enormous maw he held onto the neck of a black fire dragon. The fire dragon’s wings were torn and its torso had a giant gash indicative of a claw wound. The outcome of that battle was obvious. Other paintings showed many men running from rocks that appeared to fall from the sky.

At the top of the next set of stairs Manhar made a left turn and approached a large brass door guarded by two sentries. “Summon the announcer,” commanded Manhar.

One guard pulled twice on a rope nearby. Moments later the announcer appeared. He was shorter than an average dwarf by about a foot, and his bald head was out of place with his bushy black beard.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Tell the king—” Manhar turned to Harran. “What is your name?”

“Harran Mapmaker.”

“Ah, yes,” said Manhar, turning back to the announcer. “Tell the king Harran Mapmaker is here to see him at the request of General Manhar.” As the announcer prepared to enter through the brass doors Manhar added, “If he doesn’t know who Harran Mapmaker is, let me know at once!”

“Yes, sir,” replied the announcer.

Manhar turned and smiled at Harran. “Just in case you’re not telling the truth.”

Harran glared at Manhar until the general was forced to look away.

Many torches lit the enormous, semi-circular throne room. A golden throne stood on a dais facing a rounded seating area. The center of the room was reserved for standard seating and to either side of this the seats rose gradually to nearly the same height as the throne. These upper seats were reserved for the nobles of the dwarven realm. Doors at the back of the room opened into a small vestibule which led to entrances into the room on either side. These gave way to two aisles which separated the higher seats from the central ones.

Presently the room was empty except for the king and one of his scribes. The king was dressed in bright red and therefore stood out against the golden, lion-engraved throne. The plainly dressed scribe stood to one side, idly shuffling papers about in his hands, handing them one by one to the king. King Ironfaust IV was signing these documents when the announcer came in and declared, “Sire, Harran Mapmaker is here to see you at the request of General Manhar.”

The king looked up, startled. “What? What’s that?”

“Harran Mapmaker is here to see you at the request of General Manhar,” repeated the announcer.

“Harran Mapmaker, Harran Mapmaker,” murmured the king. “Ah, yes, Harran Mapmaker!” he shouted, snapping his fingers. He looked at the announcer. “Well? What are you standing there for? Show him in, show him in!”

The announcer scuttled off.

“Show in the general, too!” shouted the king after his subject.

“Sir, your signature,” reminded the scribe.

“Not now,” said the king irritably. “We’ll do it in an hour or so. Now be off with you!”

The scribe sighed and gathered his papers before departing.

“Ah, gentlemen!” said the king, seeing the general and Harran approaching him. “You have just saved me from the horrifying affliction of writers’ cramp!”

“I am pleased to be of service,” said Manhar, slapping his left shoulder with his right hand in salute. “I have brought you a guest from well beyond our borders. He claims to be a mapmaker in your service.”

Harran glared at the general. Guest indeed!

“That he is,” said the king. “So what seems to be the problem?”

“It struck me as odd, Sire, that a mapmaker in your service would be travelling with a minotaur.”

“A minotaur, did you say? Is this true, Harran?”

Harran saluted. “Yes, Sire.”

“Interesting,” said the king, scratching his beard. “Where is the minotaur now?”

“He is in one of your cells, Sire,” said Manhar.

“In a cell? All minotaurs spotted within the mountain are to be killed on sight! Why is this one still alive, General?”

“It appears—um—your Majesty, that this minotaur has saved the lives of several dishonoured dwarves who were in trouble, as well as your mapmaker, who says he is obligated to return the favour as a matter of honour.”

“I see,” said the king, sitting back in his throne and stroking his beard again. “Anything else, General?”

“Two more things, your Majesty. We have just set up operations in the mountain sector you had suggested and the teleporting device is functional.”

“Obviously,” said the king. “You couldn’t have returned so quickly otherwise. But didn’t I tell you to use it sparingly? Bringing back a suspected mapmaker is hardly a reason to abuse the magic of the device.”

“That brings me to the other thing I wanted to mention,” said Manhar. “Your mapmaker claims to have encountered some lizardmen, as well as a lizardmage.”

“What?!” cried the king. “Is this true as well, Harran?”

“Yes, Sire,” said Harran.

The king stood. “Manhar, you go back to the base and bring some extra soldiers with you. Harran, have you got a map indicating where you had the encounter?”

“Yes, Sire,” said Harran.

“Good. Give it to the general. Manhar, take a legion with you and cover every inch of those tunnels. Interrogate and then kill any lizardmen you encounter! Understood?”

“Yes, Sire,” said Manhar, accepting Harran’s map. He saluted stiffly and departed.

“I thought we had seen the end of those slimy creatures,” murmured the king.

“Apparently not,” said Harran.

The king brought his attention back to his mapmaker. “Well, Harran, suppose we start at the beginning?”

Harran began his tale starting when he last departed the dwarven city. He pulled out several maps that he had made and pointed out the trails that led to possible mining locations. One led across four narrow chasms and over a steep gorge with a lava pool beneath. At the end rich veins of gold could be seen. The gold would be well worth mining if safe bridges could be constructed. Another map showed a trail that ran down into the mountain at a steep angle. There rich points of amethyst covered the walls, and beneath that were signs of silver. Hand holds and a pulley system would be all that was needed to safely mine that area.

Finally Harran reached the point where he was captured. He left out the part about being held for ransom in a minotaur town. Instead he opted to say that he was being held in a patrol tower cell and the minotaurs were undecided about what to do with him. From there he proceeded with the story as usual, mentioning his deal with the minotaur and their adventures until they were caught in the net.

The king sat back and stroked his beard. Finally he spoke. “I understand your obligation to fulfil your deal with the minotaur, but it appears he got the worst part of the bargain in this case. It is not your fault that he entered the mountain. Whether you guided him all the way through the mountain or just a couple of feet, he has violated the treaty between the dwarves and minotaurs and must be put to death. The fact that he sacrificed his life for dwarves is irrelevant. It is a promising sign, yes, but irrelevant nonetheless. As for his claim to the throne, I’ve heard all kinds of rumours regarding a lost heir, but each time someone claims to be the heir, they disappear again. He may have convinced you, but I need more tangible evidence.”

“But—,” began Harran.

“I hereby absolve you of your obligation to the minotaur,” continued the king without waiting for Harran to finish. “Even if you had fulfilled your part of the deal, it would only have prolonged the inevitable. The minotaur must pay the penalty. As for you, we will hold a celebration in your honour tonight for your bold rescue on behalf of our less fortunate brethren. At that time I will pay you for your successful gathering of maps. I am pleased with the results of your mission. But, please, try not to keep company with a minotaur the next time!”

“Yes, Sire,” said Harran meekly. He stood, straightened, saluted, and departed with much less enthusiasm than he had entered with.

The celebration that night was rich with music and wine and the opulent array of food adorning the king’s table would have made even a wealthy human stare in awe. Now Harran knew the meaning of the phrase ‘as rich as a dwarven king’. During the celebrations the king presented Harran with a sum of gold for his successful maps. There was a murmur of surprised awe from some of the rich nobles present at the table. Dwarven transactions were usually made in private. To be paid in public like this was a sign of tremendous honour.

Zylor was due to be executed the next morning. That fact nagged at Harran all evening. Here he was, enjoying some of the richest luxuries in the world, while his former companion, one who had saved his life on more than one occasion, was sitting in a cell only hours from death. He hadn’t even seen him since they were captured. The preparations for the celebration kept him too busy; the king’s servants measured him up and down to fit him with the finest clothes; the nobles insisted on hearing the story of his daring rescue; the kitchen staff even made lists of his favourite foods.

He excused himself early and quietly worked his way down to the dungeon. There were two guards in the guard room playing dice. “I’d like to speak to the minotaur,” announced Harran.

The guards jumped. They were so engrossed in their game, they didn’t hear him enter. “I—uh—sure, I guess,” said the first guard. He quickly led the way to the third cell and pointed. “In there.”

“Would you mind opening the door?” said Harran. “I have a hard time talking through doors.”

“Ah, are you sure?” stammered the guard.

“Open—the—door,” said Harran slowly and deliberately. “Understand?”

The guard quickly complied. After opening the door he jumped back. “It’s your funeral.”

Harran simply shook his head and entered. He took one step and stopped dead in his tracks. The minotaur was chained to the floor and ceiling by his hands and feet. That wouldn’t have seemed so odd if it wasn’t for the fact that the cell was only about five feet high! The minotaur was hunched over in such an awkward position that Harran wondered if he had any bones under all that muscle.

“Took you long enough,” growled Zylor.

Harran turned on the guard. “Guard!”

“Y-Yes?”

“Don’t you have any bigger cells?”

“Th-There’s one at the end of the hall.”

“Then why didn’t you put him in there?”

“We—It was safer to—uh—.”