Kazin's Quest: Book I of The Dragon Mage Trilogy Page 9

  Zylor shook his head. “If you were a minotaur, I’d say you were suffering from bloodlust.”

  Just then another dwarf came up to Harran and pulled him aside in conversation. An older dwarf nearby noticed the minotaur’s predicament and stumped over to examine his foot, which was cut and bleeding from the fragments of exploded skull. “This needs to be sterilized and bandaged right away,” he said gruffly. “Get some bandages, Zach,” he ordered over his shoulder.

  A young, dark-haired dwarf standing behind the old dwarf immediately turned and ran off for the supplies.

  “We owe you a great debt for saving our lives,” said the old dwarf, addressing Zylor. “By the way, my name’s Horst Hammarhold. By what are you called, friend?”

  “Zylor.”

  The dwarf immediately stopped what he was doing and peered intently at the minotaur. “Was your mother’s name Mylorga, by any chance?”

  Zylor sat bolt upright. “What do you know of Mylorga?” he demanded.

  Horst sat back on his heels and scratched his grey beard. “Let’s see now. Some twenty odd years ago Mylorga, a female minotaur, came to our community carrying an infant minotaur named Zylor. She said she was running from a crazed minotaur lover. She appeared exhausted and low on provisions. The council of elders convened to determine if we should allow her to stay. After a lengthy debate, they decided it would be all right. She didn’t appear to be a threat and she certainly needed food and shelter. There were some objections but the elders had made up their minds.

  “After she settled in, she offered to help around the community. We were suspicious at first, but after a few days of helping to rebuild one of our food storage buildings which was destroyed in a landslide, we saw that she could be very useful indeed. Whenever we needed brute strength, she was always there, her minotaur strength allowing her to carry a lion’s share of the load. While she assisted the community, one of the elders would care for her infant son. After a few months, she announced that she had to return to her people. She thanked us for our hospitality and prepared to leave. There were mixed feelings about this announcement. Most of us were saddened by this news but some were relieved. To them, minotaurs belonged with their own kind. But for the most part we begged her to stay. We had all grown accustomed to her presence and to see her leave was like seeing a part of the community leave. Some of us had even grown fond of the infant, particularly the elders who had the chance to play with him.” Horst looked at the minotaur. “Are you the son of Mylorga?”

  “I don’t remember any of it,” answered Zylor. “But the stories Mylorga told me coincides with what you have said.”

  “Then you must be the same Zylor, the infant who was in our community nearly twenty years ago,” said Horst. He got up and drew the attention of an even older dwarf nearby. Bending close to his ear, Horst yelled, “Guess who I found, Elder?”

  “Who? What? What are you talking about?” demanded the old dwarf in a high-pitched voice.

  “I found Zylor!” yelled Horst.

  “Zylor who? The only Zylor I know is a minotaur!”

  “Exactly,” yelled Horst, pointing. “He’s right over there!”

  The old dwarf turned and peered at Zylor. “Impossible! Zylor was just an infant. He’s too big.” The old dwarf shook his head in disbelief.

  “He’s grown up now!” yelled Horst.

  “I’m not stupid,” said the old dwarf irritably. He shambled over to the minotaur, peering intently. “I don’t know. Did you check his ear?”

  “His ear?” repeated Horst, bewildered.

  “Yes, the white spot behind his ear.”

  Horst looked at Zylor. “May I?”

  Zylor shrugged. He was just as curious about the whole thing as Horst was.

  Horst reached behind Zylor’s right ear.

  “Not that one!” said the old dwarf. “The left one!”

  Horst reddened and checked behind Zylor’s left ear. The old dwarf squinted at it and then his eyes opened wide. “It is him! Unbelievable! I remember bouncing you on my knee,” he said to Zylor. “You always cried when we stopped. You couldn’t get enough!” The elder laughed. “You livened things up whenever I came to see you.” Seeing Zylor’s foot, the elder grabbed Horst’s arm and demanded, “Why aren’t you addressing his wounds? He saves our lives and you let him lie there bleeding to death!”

  “I, uh,” Horst stammered. Just then Zach ran up with some medical supplies. “Took you long enough,” growled Horst, snatching the supplies out of his hands and getting on his knees to tend Zylor’s wounds.

  “Nice thinking, Zach,” said the elder, patting him on the shoulders. “Quick action like that is bound to save lives.”

  Seeing the bewildered expression on Zach’s face was enough to make Zylor laugh.

  Horst growled. This laughter at his expense was not about to go unpunished. Adding a little extra fungi extract, Horst applied the bandage to Zylor’s foot. With satisfaction he watched Zylor’s grin of laughter change to a grimace of pain.

  That evening they made camp at the intersection of the unmarked tunnel and the main passageway. In the morning they would separate, the rescued dwarves returning to their homes on the outside of the mountain, while Harran and Zylor continued up toward the plateau. They ate heartily, making use of the stockpiles of food that formerly belonged to the lizardmen. They compared stories of their travel and the dwarves explained how each had been caught, one by one, in ambush. The elder had gone into the mountain with two guards to find out why his people were disappearing, but became a victim himself as a result. They were all eager to return home and invited Harran and Zylor to stay with them at any time.

  At one point Zylor asked them why they didn’t live in the dwarven cities with the other dwarves. He immediately regretted asking this question. Many of the dwarves hung their heads or looked away. Zylor looked at Harran who only shook his head. Finally Horst spoke up. “We are all either dishonoured ourselves or members of the family of someone who is dishonoured. That means we are no longer accepted into the dwarven realm.”

  “Aren’t you given an opportunity to regain your honour?” asked Zylor; “perhaps in an honourable battle or something?”

  Horst smiled. “We can regain our honour, yes, but not through fighting. We have to bring the king one of three things; an item of inestimable worth, an item of extreme rarity, or an item of the distant past. None of these things are easy to obtain.”

  “I see,” said Zylor, nodding.

  “It’s not worth the hassle,” interjected the elder. “The king’s an old fool anyway.”

  “Shhh! Watch what you say!” said Horst harshly, looking concernedly in Harran’s direction.

  Harran had a look of shock on his face. No one called the dwarven king an old fool!

  “I’m not governed by the laws of the dwarven realm,” said the elder proudly. “Besides, the king can’t throw me out twice for the same transgression. He threw me out once and that’s all he’ll ever be able to do to me.”

  “He threw you out of the kingdom for calling him a fool?” asked Harran.

  “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” said the elder.

  “How long have you been out of the kingdom?” asked Zylor loudly, remembering to compensate for the elder’s deafness.

  The elder counted on his fingers. “About eighty-three years.”

  “How old are you?” asked Zylor curiously.

  “One hundred ninety nine,” said the elder.

  There were several whistles of surprise from some nearby dwarves. Apparently dwarves did not ask someone their age, and they certainly wouldn’t dream of asking an elder’s age.

  “You’re in good shape for your age,” remarked Zylor. The elder was in good physical shape. Aside from a slight limp and being nearly deaf, he was still mobile and in full com
mand of his faculties.

  “Thank you. I’m a little hard of hearing perhaps, but I am quite capable.”

  Horst rose. “You should all get some rest. I’ll set the watch for tonight. We all have long journeys ahead of us.”

  The following morning they all rose and said their farewells. Before departing, Horst came up to the heroes and reminded them they were welcome in their community at any time. He gave a map to Harran indicating the location of their community. “I’d give a copy to you too, Zylor, but you probably couldn’t make heads or tails of a dwarven map.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” said Harran, handing Zylor their map to the plateau. With that the two heroes turned and marched off with the limping minotaur leading the way.

  Horst Hammarhold shook his head, dumbfounded. The elder put his arm around Horst’s shoulders and cackled in his high-pitched voice. “Come, Horst. We have a long way to go and a lot to talk about.” They turned around and marched off in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 10

  The companions travelled for some time when Zylor finally broke the silence. “Is it my imagination or did you feel a little uncomfortable back there with those dwarves?”

  Harran cleared his throat. “I’m not used to hearing the king being insulted.”

  “I’ve got a few choice words for the emperor but nobody holds that against me. In fact, most would probably agree.”

  “It’s not just that,” said Harran. “I shouldn’t be associated with those dwarves. They’re dishonoured and I’m not. I belong to the dwarven realm and they don’t.”

  “But they’re your own kind,” objected Zylor.

  “I know, but they’re dishonoured,” repeated Harran.

  Zylor spun around on the dwarf. “What if they had no choice? What if they did what was right but became dishonoured because of it?”

  “I’d hardly say calling the king an old fool was right!” retorted the dwarf.

  “Maybe it was at the time,” insisted Zylor.

  “Let’s get going,” growled Harran. “You’ll never understand.” He pushed past the minotaur and continued along the corridor.

  Zylor followed and pressed on. “What I understand is an honourable dwarf who was just hailed as a hero by some dishonoured dwarves was himself nearly dishonoured if a desperate minotaur hadn’t come along to rescue him!”

  Harran stopped and turned with fire in his eyes. “I will be free of that debt once I have guided you to your destination!”

  “You’re lucky you had a skill that was useful to barter with,” continued Zylor. “Many of those other dwarves might not have been so fortunate.”

  Harran’s shoulders slumped. “I know. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a difference between honour and dishonour.”

  “There is,” said Zylor. “Deep down you know the difference.”

  Harran nodded.

  They travelled a few more tunnels and Harran called a halt. He pulled out another map and pointed to a collection of tunnels branching off from their present one. “If we take these shortcuts,” mused Harran, “we’ll save about five hours on our journey. The only drawback is that some of them will be a steep climb.”

  “That’s fine by me,” said Zylor. “Let’s go.”

  They turned off and entered a honeycomb of passageways where Harran had to take the lead. The twists and turns were too difficult for Zylor to follow. After about two hours of stop and go travelling—even Harran had to consult the maps several times—the companions entered a long straight passageway with relief.

  “We’re through the worst of it,” said Harran.

  Suddenly there was a rustling noise above their heads. They looked up and saw a large net descending from the ceiling above. They couldn’t react in time and in moments they were entangled in the mesh. They struggled futilely for another moment until they saw several dwarves come running around the corner behind them.

  Harran smiled. “You guys came just in time. I thought for sure this was an orc trap!”

  “Quiet!” ordered one dwarf who appeared to be in charge. The insignia on his helmet indicated he was a general. “I am General Manhar. You are now prisoners of the dwarven realm by command of King Ironfaust the Third!”

  “But I’m a dwarf!” protested Harran. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “Anyone in league with a minotaur is guilty of something!” said Manhar, indicating the minotaur.

  Zylor growled and savagely continued his struggle against the netting. At a signal from Manhar two dwarves ran forward and knocked the minotaur unconscious with the butt ends of their axes.

  “Tie up the dwarf!” commanded Manhar. “And dispose of the minotaur. By order of King Ironfaust all minotaurs found within the mountain are to be killed on sight.”

  “No!” yelled Harran. “You can’t do that!”

  “And why not?” asked Manhar.

  “This—this minotaur risked his life to help me save some dwarven prisoners just yesterday! He won’t hurt you. I guarantee it!”

  “I know he won’t hurt me,” sneered Manhar with an evil grin, “especially if he’s dead!” The grin vanished. “Now tell me about these dwarves he supposedly rescued. They can’t be miners. Miners are much lower in the mountain. Any other dwarves are not that far away from home.”

  “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

  The 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.