Key of Living Fire (The Sword of the Dragon) (25 page)

The slight musty smell of the ancient book caused Ilfedo to pause his reading to sniff it. When Elhandra had showed him the library, he had marveled that the books did not get moldy. This underground world felt a bit damp to his skin. But she had pointed to strips of what appeared to be leather hung on the walls. The skins were from some mighty beast that had long ago been hunted down and slain by the city’s inhabitants. They did not know what sort of beast it was, but the skin absorbed the moisture from the air and seemed never to get wet.

Ilfedo gazed again at the thick pages of the book he was reading.
Hemran’s Lament
, a book of prophecy.

Lord God, I will speak a word to this people, for they trust that their Lord Warrior shall in due season return. Surely I say, the Lord Warrior shall return. Beware, thou, that the world has forgotten. Weep, for he led you to this place and taught your children to fear neither God nor man. As a flower budding on dry ground, you will wither. This dark world is not for the Creator’s children, yet there they walk. In time old, in time forgotten, his children walked in light. But no more.

Let the dead rise and slay them. May the desert winds drown them in sand and lay their land in ruin. Call from the ashes the souls of the damned, those cursed by the Lord forever. When darkness has fully fallen and the spirits of the children are weak, then let their Lord Warrior speak. Let him bind and shackle, hew and spear. His arm is against them; his arm is for them. The Lord Warrior comes to doom them; the Lord Warrior comes to save them.

Ilfedo gently closed the leather-bound volume, and a small cloud of dust rose from the pages. He was sitting at a large stone desk in a round room with high blue marble columns and high-rising shelves piled with parchments, scrolls, and books like the one he’d been reading. He turned the spine so as to read the worn gilt letters.
Hemran’s Lament
. According to Everett and Elhandra, the people of Dresdyn regarded this particular book with reverence, for it alone contained the prophecy that confused them by giving them both dread and hope for the future.

He set the book aside and lifted another two volumes from the far end of the desk. These were in better condition, having neither the wear nor the weight of the
Hemran’s Lament
. Their titles read
Extant Records on Our Lost History
and
Oral Historical Traditions.

The first book contained diagrams of winged contraptions, some more farfetched than others, for achieving human flight. Its author claimed to be relating only what his grandfather passed on to him in oral tradition as it related to human flight. The rest of the text dealt with partial documents transcribed because of their pertinence to Dresdyn’s history. It spoke of a race of humanity forced to leave their technologically advanced society and of the few Lord Warriors who had led their exodus. By perusing its pages he’d gathered an overview of the city’s origins.

He glanced from one book to the other, then at the other material piled around him. Surely a library such as this should be taken out of this place and preserved in a clean vault, such as the vault in the city of Gwensin that held the Hemmed Land’s scrolls. If he had the time and the resources at his disposal, he could begin an analysis of the material, comparing it to the texts of the Hemmed Land. But now was not the time.

Carrying a stack of books higher than his head, Everett walked up to him. The little man set the books on the floor by Ilfedo’s chair and let out a heavy breath. “I believe these materials will be the most useful in your attaining the status of Lord Warrior in Dresdyn. The city council would rather you didn’t know so much about us, but as the books of the prophets teach us, truth sets people free.”

“Is there no other way to convince the council to change policies?” Ilfedo lifted a thin volume from the top of the stack and read
Dresdyn Law: An Overview
. “They are the leaders of this city. I am but a stranger.”

Elhandra glided from behind a pile of books. “I thought you said the sword was a gift from a prophet.”

Ilfedo nodded, wondering what she was leading up to. He found her ready with sharp, quick answers at all times. It intrigued him.

The woman laughed. “Everett told me that he thinks your sword spoke the words directly out of
Hemran’s Lament
.”

He looked at the worn old volume and said, “It did.”

“Do you not find that a bit strange? The first time you heard those words was when I quoted part of the prophecy.” She stepped in front of the desk and leaned forward, the palms of her hands on its surface as her gray eyes gleamed at him. “There is a purpose for everything. The Creator guides us each to fulfill his will. We can ignore it and miss out on his blessings, or embrace his path and live it out in faith. Right now you need to take the prophecy in faith. Only you can bring about an exodus from this place. Only you can lead us out of here to where we can become a part of the larger world. Don’t you see? You are the key that unlocks our destiny. Unless you embrace us as your people, unless you accept the role of Lord Warrior, we will fall into darkness.”

Everett held up his arms. “Whoa! Hold it. You believe this time—”

Her beautiful eyes gazed heavenward. “One Lord Warrior has come; one Lord Warrior must rise, to test the hearts and minds of this people and prove them before their exodus. Rise now, oh people of Dresdyn. Rise now or thy children will forever walk in darkness, until the generations dwindle and your names are forgotten.”

Ilfedo and Everett glanced at each other. Everett shrugged his shoulders, and Ilfedo opened the book. Elhandra was a puzzle, yet what she said rang true in his heart. He must lead these people to the Hemmed Land. Their lives down here were hardly lives at all, and unless he took charge nothing would ever change for them. He would do it for the children and mothers in the factory, and the fathers stuck following tunnels into the deeper places of the world, places no human should ever have to go.

Ilfedo had met with the city council, a group of men of pomp with, as he saw it, little honor. They groaned when he told them how he’d shut down the factory.

“You should have consulted us, stranger,” one councilor objected. “This action will earn you great disfavor among the people.”

“The opposite has proved true.” Ilfedo thudded his fist on the long table at which the councilors sat. “I have found allies among your people. Allies whom in these past few days I have come to regard as true friends.”

A large man with a roundish face rose from his seat. “You have somehow gained the loyalty of the riffraff in our city. But they hold no power, and neither do you. And, I promise, I will leverage my position to see that your power is not validated.” Several councilors glanced at him, and he coughed into his hand. “We are, however, not denying your miraculous and seemingly timely arrival. We are deeply grateful to you for ridding us of the demons, or beastly creatures, that haunted the northeast corner of our city.” He sat down as another man rose.

“We had high hopes that you would fulfill a prophecy concerning our people,” said the councilor. “Yet your actions defied the rule of our law, and a new Lord Warrior must work within the rule of law.”

“Work within the rule of law?” A giant of a man loomed in the dining room doorway. “Councilors, perhaps you forget that the rule of law is dictated by the Lord Warrior. He is the supreme authority in a nation.”

“Captain of the guard?” The large man with the roundish face leaned toward the figure cast in shadow as if to see him with greater clarity.

Bromstead loomed into the lamplight and folded his arms across his chest. “You called me ‘riffraff,’ Councilor.”

The large man shook his head. “I would never. Always you have served us with distinction.”

“Then,” Bromstead said, “perhaps you were not aware that Lord Ilfedo has gained not only the support of the lower-class citizens of our great city but also of myself, the city guards themselves, Elhandra the prophetess, and a number of monks. When the soldiers in the tunnels hear of him, they will follow him as well.”

“It is an uncomfortable and sad situation,” another councilor interjected. “We are unsure whether to banish this stranger or to reward his selflessness.”

Bromstead lowered his arms to his sides. “The choice is simpler than you think. Simply listen to the word of the people on the streets, look at their faces, and judge where you want to be a year from now.” He glanced down at Ilfedo. “I trust this man. I believe he will lead us out of this city to a new home under the sun. I have always wanted that. I have always wanted to leave the darkness and live in the light. Every child among us, every child that sits at this table today . . .” He smiled and the councilors laughed. “Noble lords”—Bromstead looked into each of their faces—“the time has come for change. Give up the authority you hold before the people tear our city in two. They have been depressed, and, regretfully, you have allowed some to be oppressed. They will make you pay for that if you do not execute a wise course of action today.”

Ilfedo watched as the men relaxed. They gazed up at him with sudden respect. Whether this was caused by Bromstead’s endorsement of him, or because they let the child in their hearts out to view the sliver of hope his presence offered, he did not know. He felt elevated in their eyes. They shifted from lording their will over their people, and their eyes betrayed their hopes that he would rise and guide them. Power had shifted. He felt it settle into his hands as Dresdyn’s leaders slid their chairs aside and knelt in front of him. Bromstead loomed beside him. This side journey in his quest for the key of Living Fire had handed him a powerful ally.

13

AN EMPTY GRAVE

F
our days Oganna had been here. She stepped out of her command tent into warm morning sunlight and gazed at Fort Gabel’s foundations. Masons heaved chiseled stones into beds of mortar. Their taut faces and sober expressions eased as they glanced up out of their pits and saw her. She smiled upon them all and walked along the edge of the foundation, every step light and full of life. The workmen knelt back to their tasks.

More than five hundred men worked in the pits, forming square stone foundations that rose out of the rich soil. From these foundations the heart of the fortress would be birthed. From the forests, a line of men carried wooden beams on their shoulders. They carried them into the pits, laying some on wet blocks of mortar and standing others in holes. Masons gathered around the poles held upright in the holes and poured mortar in around them. As the holes filled, the masons propped other beams against the poles to hold them in place. When the mortar hardened, this foundation would be solid indeed.

The process brought a smile to her lips as she regarded the tents of workmen and artisans that peppered the fields surrounding the site. The tents, clean and white, could have passed for bits of fluffy clouds that had fallen from the sky.

“Princess.” Saybor, the master artisan, strode out of a nearby tent; his smooth face and wild long hair blustered as a breeze caught it. His hair was as blond as her own. He stood in front of her and bowed with a thin humorous smile twitching his mustache. “Your input has been most valuable to us, and I would like to thank you. Remarkably, although you’ve had no prior experience and certainly no training, we, the artisans of Gwensin, preferred your design for this fortress, preferred it over the designs proposed by two of our master artisans. Eighty out of the one hundred artisans present voted to work along the designs you laid out for us. And the dissenters offered no good reasons for their objection.”

She frowned. “You are sure the majority did not agree just to please me?” His smile and chuckle told her all she needed to hear. She took the rolled paper in his hand and walked into his tent. The ceiling was high and the tent oblong.