Key of Living Fire (The Sword of the Dragon) (33 page)

Then, strong human arms slid under hers. They tensed and pulled her up, dragging her from the water. Someone slapped her cheeks and pulled the slime out of her nose and mouth. She closed her eyes and allowed her weary body to collapse. The arms lifted her, and she felt wind blow across her face. A branch slapped her skin, and her rescuer set her in a bed of dry leaves. The horrible face of the swamp creature crossed her mind, and she shuddered.

She was safe now—at least she thought so. Unable to open her eyes and not certain she wanted to, she curled into the leaves and drifted into dreamland.

A sweet smell of candied apples drew Oganna’s mind out of her dreams. But she held on for a moment longer. In the field stood a man, a young one by the look of it. His eyes shone with passion, and his face was as bold as a lion, yet gentle. She walked toward him, and he came toward her. He looked about as if confused, and then his eyes rested on her.

She tried to read his expression, to gauge what he was thinking. Did he like what he was seeing? She could see him and he could see her. It was only a dream, and yet she had heard her father speak of the strange way in which he had met her mother, and she’d always had a secret desire to meet the man of her dreams in a similar way. The warm wind gusted through the field, scattering the fluffy white seeds of the dandelions ahead of it.

Again she smelled the sweet odor, like candied apples. Someone was trying to wake her. But she did not wish to wake. She wanted to find out more about this dream and know if there was more to it than simple imagination. The young man stood close to her and raised his hand as if to brush her hair, and she smiled up at him, hopeful that he would. There was a curiosity in his eyes that she wanted to understand—a curiosity about her.

In a whirlwind of colors, the vision around her vanished, and she found herself lying on a bed of dry oak leaves. A canopy of interlacing branches above her formed a solid roof, and her bed was on what appeared to be a nest built in the trees. She could not see through the nest’s floor; however, she guessed that the swamp lay far below.

Caritha’s smiling face cut into her field of view. “Good morning, Oganna. Did you sleep well?” Oganna noticed a jar in the woman’s hand and guessed at the contents.

“Smelling salts?”

“No, more like—” Caritha ran her fingers through her red-brown hair until she came up with a satisfactory answer. “More like spices. Our host picked them off one of these trees. He said it would wake you up, and it looks as though he was right.”

Rising to a sitting position, Oganna stretched her sore arms. “Our host? Is that who pulled me out of the swamp?”

Caritha nodded solemnly. “He pulled us
all
out. I still can’t figure out how he did it. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. We are alive and safe.” She stood and spread her arms to keep her balance as the branches shifted under her weight. “Be careful; this house may be sturdy, but it is still not as solid a footing as we are used to. Walk slowly, and step on the larger branches.”

The woven walls of the nest were unbroken except for in one place: a round door made of wood rested in the far wall. Oganna stood and followed her aunt through the door into a larger room. Furs covered the floor here, and two log benches offered cozy seating. Ombre lay on one of the benches, a bearskin draped over his body. His steady breathing told her that he was asleep.

“Our host is through that door, Oganna. Before you meet him I suggest you prepare yourself for a shock.”

“A shock?” Oganna shook her head. “After being almost drowned by a creepy twenty-foot-high swamp creature, there is little left to shock me.”

Caritha gave her a warm hug and kissed her on the forehead. “At the very least it will come as a surprise.” She held Oganna at arm’s length and stared into her eyes. “Our host is an Art’en.”

“An Art’en!” Oganna almost spat the word.

The woman shushed her. “Not so loud. We don’t need to insult him. Yes, he is an Art’en, and he has not only saved our lives but he has offered to show us a safer way through the swamp.”

In her mind, Oganna went back to the day she and Vectra fought at the Citadel of Ar’lenon. While the giants encompassed the city of Netroth, the flying men that had called themselves Art’en had attacked her and the Megatraths. She remembered, too, that it was an Art’en that had cast a spell over her father and controlled him through a wizard’s powers. After all that, could she possibly trust one of them?

Nonsense
! She chided herself.
Just because some members of his race are evil doesn’t give me the right to shun him
. He had saved her life, as well as the lives of Ombre and Caritha. Then he had brought them to his home. Art’en or not, she would treat him with the dignity and honor he deserved.

The partially open door offered little to no resistance as she pushed it aside and entered the adjoining room. Wicker baskets lined the far wall, and four vines hung from the ceiling, suspending a legless wood table. A single lantern set in a corner of the room provided light.

Whistling a merry tune, with his back turned to her, was the Art’en. She leaned sideways to see the side of him. He was about six feet tall with broad shoulders, a rather pointed nose, and a high forehead. Gray hair, parted down the center of his head, fell almost to his shoulders, and he had the keenest brown eyes. His skin had paled with age and was a bit wrinkled.

The Art’en dug into one of the wicker baskets with a pan and filled it with brown rice, then set it on a small potbellied stove against the left wall that she had not noticed. His dark-brown feathers rustled as he spun to face her.

He folded his hands behind his back and then flourished a courtly bow. “Welcome to my humble home, Princess. My name is Whimly Janvel. However, I will permit you to call me Whimly.”

She curtsied. “Then, please, Whimly, call me Oganna.” Then, remembering the viper, she inquired about it.

“Ah, you mean the loyal serpent I found unconscious around your neck.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the potbellied stove. “Poor thing,” Whimly whispered, pointing at the viper coiled next to the heated cast iron. “Exhausted it is, and rightly so. That was a brave fight it put up in your defense.” He looked down at her and cocked his head to the side. “It is most unusual for a human to win the affection of a desert viper. How did you come upon this one?”

After telling him of the evil Art’en that had led the vipers against the Hemmed Land and how she had broken the wizard’s spell over the viper, she told him of Razes. The creature shook his head in wonderment. “It is sad yet true that many of my species have turned to sorcery. Shame litters Art’en history, and darkness dwells in many hearts. The wizards began their work with us, so the legend goes, and the corruption of men—fortunately—was never complete. Thank goodness for that.”

“What do you mean the wizards
began
with you? Were the first wizards Art’en?”

He patted her shoulder and chuckled uncomfortably. “No, thank goodness we were not the first. But the legends of my people
do
reveal that the wizards were responsible for our ultimate demise.”

A smile lit his noble face, and she felt a wave of awe wash over her as he continued. “The day will come when a prophecy will be fulfilled, and the Art’en will no longer serve the wizards. The day will come when darkness will be drawn off the corrupted ones, and they will again see the light. They will shake the shackles imposed on them by their own blindness, and they will make war upon the wizards.”

“You speak as though the prophecy is your own,” she said as she looked into his eyes.

They returned her gaze in a playful manner. “Maybe the words are mine. Maybe I made the prophecy. It matters not. What matters is that it will one day be fulfilled.”

“Then, for your sake, I hope that day comes soon.” She knelt and stroked the viper’s head. It stirred, its eyes fluttering open as it yawned up at her. “My valiant defender.” She felt the tears come to her eyes as she realized that the serpent might have died defending her.
Never again will I doubt the depth of your commitment, my little friend! You are my hero.

16

IN THE WATER SKEELS’ MIDST

S
pecter’s stomach growled and he frowned, stepping up to a stalk of the ice world’s grass. He sliced a piece off with his scythe, rolled it in his fist, and forced it into his mouth. Too long. Too long he’d lived off this bitter-tasting growth. He’d hidden from the water skeels and among them. He had seen hundreds of them racing through their ice tunnels, lords of this world hidden from the world.

As he chewed the grass, it stuck to the roof of his mouth, dangled strands down his throat, forced him to gag. But his stomach growled again, and his hunger overcame his dissatisfaction with the nourishment. He swallowed it.

Directing his steps out of the mist-filled chamber, he emerged into the cavern. He’d discovered this one only the other day. It rivaled the one he’d seen when witnessing the skeels’ mating chamber, if that was what that place should be called. Since leaving the peach-skinned water skeels behind, he had seen only the monstrous white males and pods of younger ones. Skeel
ets
, he’d come to call them.

A procession of forty large males waddled into the cavern, split into pairs, and pulled themselves up to jutting ice platforms high on the walls. They settled their fat bodies on the jagged platforms and held their heads high, warbling deep and long. They posed there, as sentinels along each wall. From Specter’s position he looked down upon them and the hundreds more that emerged from tunnels and adjacent caverns. The smooth walls and floor of the cavern, and the mineral stalactites on the ceiling far above, pulsed with soft white light.

The water skeels flooded the cavern, yet despite their massive numbers they did so in utter silence. Only the sentinels uttered a sound. The masses stood along the edges of the cavern, leaving a straight, wide path through their midst to an icy pinnacle. Water fell from that end, forming a moat around the pinnacle. Then, abruptly, the sentinels ended their warbling and directed their green gazes toward the far end of the cavern.

The largest water skeel of them all lumbered out of a tunnel. He bared his needle teeth and flashed sparks from his eyes. As he placed each massive fin on the ice floor, rainbows of color bled through the ice, then faded. The gathering lowered their long necks until their heads touched the ground as he pulled his great bulk toward the pinnacle. Not glancing to either side, the water skeel levitated off the ground. He rose to the pinnacle’s peak and crashed atop it, shattering ice shards in all directions as he gazed over his subjects.

The large one had to be Cromlin, king of the water skeels. Specter had approached the creature several times, seeking insights into their culture, and always in passing the other skeels warbled something that sounded very much like “Crumlin.” Yet in all his searching of the maze of ice tunnels and caverns, not once had he glimpsed a human. Perhaps Auron was not even in this place.

For the next several hours he listened to the unintelligible warbling of Cromlin. It dragged on for an eternity. Specter hadn’t seen Yimshi’s light in so long. He wondered how many days it had been since first he’d arrived. After nearly collapsing into sleep, he lay down in the mists of a small chamber—too small for the male skeels to enter. His thoughts turned in every direction—reminiscing, regretting, hoping.

The king of the water skeels trumpeted, and Specter covered his ears. The skeels dispersed into the tunnels and caverns, all except for the sentinels. Then, speaking intelligible words that rang through the cavern, Cromlin laughed. “Oh, don’t be so fearful. An ally of mine ally is safe here so long as he behaves himself.” Speaking with great force the skeel said, “Come forward that we may speak!”