Elven Star

39

The dragon came up on the five, catching them massed in front of the gate of the citadel, trying vainly to get inside. The marble walls were slick and smooth, without a handhold or foothold in sight. They banged upon the gate with their fists and, in desperation, hurled themselves against it. The gate didn’t so much as quiver.

One of the five suggested battering rams, another magic, but the talk was half-hearted and desultory. Each knew that if elven or human magic had been effective, the citadel would have been occupied.

And then the strange and terrible darkness once again began to flow from the city walls, creeping over the mountain and the jungle like slowly rising flood waters. Yet though it was dark below, it was light above, the crystal spire casting its radiant white call out into a world that had forgotten how to answer. The bright light caused every object to be either seen or unseen—illuminated brilliantly by its glow or lost in impenetrable shadow. The darkness was terrifying, more so because they could still see the sun shining in the sky. Because of the darkness, they heard the dragon coming before they saw it. The rock shook beneath their feet, the city walls trembled under the dwarf’s hand. They started to flee to the jungle, but the sight of the darkness submerging the trees was appalling. For all they knew, the dragon would come from that very direction. They clung to the city walls, unwilling to leave its shelter, though they knew it couldn’t protect them.

The dragon appeared, out of the darkness, breath hissing. The starlike light glittered off the scaled head, reflected red in the gleaming eyes. The dragon’s mouth parted, the teeth were stained with blood that was black in the white light. A bit of mouse-colored cloth fluttered horribly, impaled upon a sharp, glistening fang. The five stood together; Roland protectively in front of Aleatha, Paithan and Rega beside each other, hand in hand. They held desperately onto their weapons, though they knew they were useless.

Drugar’s back was to the danger. The dwarf paid no attention to the dragon. He was gazing, fascinated, at the hexagonal gate, its runes thrown into sharp relief by the starlike light.

“I recognize each one,” he said, reaching out his hand, running the fingers lovingly over the strange substance that gleamed brightly, reflecting the light, reflecting the image of approaching death.

“I know each sigil,” he repeated, and he named them, as a child who knows the alphabet but does not yet know how to read will name the individual letters it sees upon the sign hanging from the inn.

The others heard the dwarf muttering to himself in his own language.

“Drugar!” Roland called urgently, keeping his gaze fixed on the dragon, not daring to turn around and look behind him. “We need you!” The dwarf did not answer. He stared, mesmerized, at the gate. In the very center of the hexagon, the surface was blank. Runes surrounded it in a circle on all sides, the strokes of the tops and bottoms of the sigia merging together, breaking apart, leaving broad gaps in an otherwise continuous flow. Drugar saw, in his mind, Haplo drawing the runes. The dwarf’s hand slipped into the tunic of his blouse, chilled fingers wrapped around the obsidian medallion he wore on his chest. He drew it forth, held it up before the gate so that it was level with the blank spot, and slowly began to rotate it.

“Leave him alone,” said Paithan, as Roland began to curse the dwarf. “What can he do anyway?”

“True enough, I guess,” Roland muttered. Sweat mingled with the blood caked on his face. He felt Aleatha’s cool fingers on his arm. Her body pressed closer to his, her hair brushed against his skin. His curses hadn’t really been aimed at the dwarf at ail, but hurled bitterly against fate. “Why doesn’t the damn thing attack and get it over with!”

The dragon loomed in front of them, its wingless, footless body coiling upward, its head almost level with the top of the smooth city walls. It seemed to be enjoying the sight of their torment, savoring their fear, a sweet aroma, tempting to the palate.

“Why has it taken death to bring us together?” whispered Rega, holding fast to Paithan’s hand.

“Because, like our ‘savior’ said, we never learn.” Rega glanced behind her, wistfully, at the gleaming white walls, the sealed gate. “I think we might have, this time. I think it might have been different.”

The dragon’s head lowered; the four facing it could see themselves reflected in the eyes. Its foul breath, smelling of blood, was warm against their chilling bodies. They braced for the attack. Roland felt a soft kiss on his shoulder, the wetness of a tear touch his skin. He glanced back over his shoulder at Aleatha, saw her smile. Roland closed his eyes, praying for that smile to be his last sight.

Drugar did not turn around. He held the medallion superimposed over the blank spot on the gate. Dimly, he began to understand. As had happened when he was a child, the letters C … A … T were no longer letters to be recited individually by rote but were transformed before his eyes intoa small, furbearing animal.

Elated, transfixed by excitement, he broke the leather thong that held the medallion around his neck and lunged at the gate.

“I have it! Follow me!”

The others hardly dared hope, but they turned and ran after him. Jumping as high as he could, barely able to reach the bottom of the large round blank in the center, Drugar slammed the medallion against the surface of the gate.

The single sigil, the crude and simple rune that had been hung around the dwarf child’s neck, a charm to protect him from harm, came into contact with the tops of the runes carved upon the bottom of the gate. The medallion was small, barely larger than the dwarf’s hand, the sigil carved upon it smaller still.

The dragon struck at last. Roaring, it dove upon its victims. The sigil beneath the dwarfs hand began to glow blue, light welled up between stubby fingers. The light brightened, flared. The single rune increased in size, becoming as large as the dwarf, then as broad as a human, taller than the elf.

The sigil’s fire spread across the gate, and wherever the light of the rune touched another rune, that rune burst into flame. The flames expanded, the gate blazed with magical fire. Drugar gave a mighty shout and ran straight at it, shoving with his hands.

The gates to the citadel shivered, and opened.