The Crucible of the Dragon God (9 page)

The body of the archer lay face down amongst the wreckage in the remote peaks, twisted and spasming, and he reflected that if there had been a small chance that he might ever be found, that chance was dashed as flurries of snow blew in around him, then over him, covering him in a thick, white shroud that, come night, would freeze about him completely.

His hand moved slowly, shakily towards a pocket, searching for the bracelet Jenna had given him, hoping for comfort in its company. But his fingers felt nothing, the piece of jewellery that had seemed so important to his sister had been lost in his frantic attempts to flee the harbour. The archer sighed lengthily, though knew the sound was only partly disappointment and that, in truth, the strength to care was deserting him.

His eyelids fluttered closed and, as white flakes began to settle on them, he did not blink them away. His face unmoving now, more flakes settled layer by layer until, at last, his features were indistinguishable from the snow.

High in the Drakengrats, nature had built Killiam Slowhand his grave.

Chapter Five

The Drakengrat Mountains flared for a moment with a light so intense that it whited out the eyepiece through which Merrit Moon watched the event occur. The old man turned quickly away, rubbed his eye, and then frowned deeply. The ancient elven telescope - a rune inscribed, hand-lathed and polished thing of great beauty - was infinitely more powerful than any such device humans could have made. However, even though, at full magnification, its lenses permitted him to gaze across what amounted to a third of the peninsula, it should not have made what he had just seen seem
quite
so intense or immediate. That could mean only one thing. The explosion in the Drakengrats had been incredibly powerful and, consequently, the catalysts or combustants involved, like the telescope itself, had to have been infinitely more powerful than anything his own race could have manufactured.

The conclusion was inescapable. Something Old Race was up there -
had been
up there - but what?

Moon bent back to the eyepiece but any details on the far distant mountains were now obscured by a strange, mushroom-shaped cloud and he'd see nothing for a while. Besides, the sun was coming up, and it was time to open the shop. He was about to turn away when a slight nudge to the telescope shifted its focus down to the plains of Pontaine and something there caught his eye.

What is that?

It looked like some strange black cloud moving over the landscape, or at least would have done had it not been at ground level. And it appeared to be heading towards Gargas. There was something else, too. Something familiar. In the middle of it. A bulky black thing with something on it, moving at speed, as if trying to outrace the cloud. Moon adjusted the magnification on the telescope but, by the time he had done, the object and the cloud had become obscured by what few hills existed in that part of the province.

This was surely a day for mysteries.

Moon sighed, covered telescope with a cloth, and made his way over to the spiral staircase that wound down through two floors to ground level. The old man grunted as he began to negotiate the creaking risers, the wooden stairs having always been a tight squeeze but having become something of a tortuous ordeal since his unfortunate 'accident' in the World's Ridge Mountains. Though in the months since the events of the Clockwork King he had managed to concoct a number of potions and medicines that kept Thrutt's ogur form in relative check, his physical mass and bone structure remained twice what it had been. This left him with a physiognomy that had a tendency to make babies cry and small dogs bark. He had to force himself to be philosophical about this, however, as he had learned on a number of unfortunate occasions that what seemed to trigger the Thrutt transformation was a rise in his blood pressure. A condition flagged by a tendency for his nose and ears to turn a bright red, his eyes to bulge and his mood to become very, very angry. It was embarrassing, yes, but he supposed it could have been worse, even if he wasn't sure exactly how.

Calm
, he told himself as he squeezed between the stairway's walls, dislodging pictures and ornaments as he went, cursing the resultant clattering.
Calm
.

The old man emerged into the shop, found it dark and, yawning, moved to the two windows and door to flip their blinds. Azure dawn light flooded
Wonders of the World
and, through a criss-cross of dusty motes, he took a quick inventory of stock, working out which lines he would need to replenish from the cellar. Goblin death rattles, for sure, always popular with the babies. Shnarl fur dice and the stick-on elf ears, too - the only non-authentic line he carried. And there had been quite the run on troll testicles of late, but then it
was
spring and they were always popular at this time of year.

The cellar, however, could wait. Despite the required restocking, things had been pretty quiet around Gargas of late, and there would likely be no customers for a while. It was a state of affairs Moon attributed to the rumours of new predators on the peninsula. He didn't know how much truth there was in the rumours - certainly there had been no sightings of the creatures this far east - but once these things got started, that was that, people simply weren't prepared for the unusual. Peering out through the glass of the door, however, everything looked normal to Moon. The market was gearing up and the flummox was starting to bubble on the Greenwood's nearby stall. When it was ready he might even be tempted by a glass, maybe dunk some redbread to kick start the day, slurping the juices from his chin. Since he had become part ogur his appetites had changed, though thankfully not so far as getting the munchies for the heads of the babies who squawked interminably when they saw him. The temptation, though, had been there.

Moon flipped the open sign and suddenly a figure loomed in his face, leering in at him through the glass. A customer, already? And a fop from one of the cities or larger towns by the look of him, even if he seemed slightly on the down-at-heels side. City dwellers were the worst kind of customer, because even though everything in his store was genuine they never believed it so, for the simple reason that they had never encountered it - as closeted as they were in their own, small and so-called 'civilised' world. Moon sighed then opened the door, and even before he could say good morning, it started. Except this time it wasn't about the provenance of his stock.

"By the Lord of All! The butcher across the way was right"

"Excuse me?"

The fop jabbed him in the chest, and Moon got a whiff of a pungent underarm. "This ogur thing - great idea and I have to say you have it almost bang on. The perfect way to advertise your shop. Harmon Ding, by the way, consultant to the retail trade. Consultancy's quite the big thing in the cities, you know."

Oh, it would be,
Moon thought.

The Old Races constructed unimaginable wonders but now that man was the dominant race, it concentrated its efforts trying to find a better way to sell sprabbage. But what was the man on about regarding 'this ogur thing'?

"Something I can help you with, Mister Ding?"

Ding gave a cursory glance around the shop, clearly uninterested in its wares. "Maybe, maybe. All in good time. The important thing is you. Like I said,
almost
bang on." He shook his head and sucked in a breath. "This ogur thing," he added slowly, "
not quite right
."

Moon stared at him, nonplussed. "Not quite right?"

Ding stared back, in a way that suggested he was dealing with someone with the
brains
of an ogur. "The costume! The mask!" He narrowed his eyes, leaned in and then whispered conspiratorially. "Between you and me, looks a bit fake."

"Fake?"

Ding nodded. "Fake, yes. It's like you're half man, half ogur. Look, I know ogurs - I've seen pictures of them in storybooks - and while we both know they're not real, if you're going for the effect, you've at least got to go all the way."

"Oh, ogurs are quite real, Mister Ding. Trust me, I know."

"Yes, yes, of course, of course. What else could you say with this," he waved his hand dismissively, "
novelty
shop being your going concern?"

Novelty shop? Moon felt a rumble beginning in his throat and the lobes of his ears warmed slightly. "Let me rephrase my question, Mister Ding. Is there anything you would like to
BUY
?"

"Buy, Mister Moon?" Ding looked almost aggrieved. "No, no, not buy. I'm here to
sell
. My services. For a period of one month. For a one off fee of fifty full silver."

"Why on Twilight would I pay you fifty full silver?"

Ding stared at him, swallowed slightly, and then suddenly snapped an upright finger into the air, as if to demonstrate a point. Unbidden, he began to prance around the shop, pointing things out and occasionally gazing at the ceiling as if he were somehow receiving divine messages from the old man's bedroom.

"Because I'm seeing
special ogur days
to bring the punters in. I'm seeing spit-roasts and I'm seeing chase-the-child competitions. I'm seeing captive princesses, donkeys, face scribing and pig's bladders on strings. But most of all, I'm seeing you - yes you! - in a brand, spanking new costume designed by me. Huge, flappy ears. Big teeth. Green." He paused, finally, then pointed directly at him. "
You
, Mister Moon, will make a fortune!"

There was a moment's silence, then -

"I'm not paying you fifty full silver for anything."

"Forty, then!"

"No."

"Thirty?"

"
Nothing
at all."

Ding gazed at him, open-mouthed. "You're making a big mistake."

"I don't think so. For one thing, you're clearly not a full tenth. For another, I'm not
wearing
a costume or mask." His voice deepened. "
Of any kind
."

"And you're saying
I'm
not a full tenth?"

"Twilight is an unusual place, Mister Ding."

Ding laughed. "Oh, here we go! You mean the Old Races and their ancient technology? The Pale Lord? The Clockwork King? And these new things - the k'nid?" Ding curled his fingers at Moon and made nibbling sounds with his teeth. "Just
stories
, my friend - tales to be told around the fire during Long Night and that's all.
Not real
."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

Ding smirked. "Trust
me
, Mister Moon. There is nothing in this world that could persuade me otherw..."

Ding trailed off, his mouth hanging open as, right in front of him, there was a crackle of energy, a whoosh of charged air and a yelling, half-naked woman appeared out of nowhere, right in the middle of the shop.

The woman was riding a roaring horse. Except it wasn't a horse, not really, but a huge, armoured, horned thing that looked like a Vossian siege machine. And
clinging
to the Horse - apparently trying to eat it and its rider - were a number of thrashing, clawing, slashing things that Ding found... indescribable. He would have blinked and rubbed his eyes, had he not been busy flinging himself out of the way, because the horse had arrived moving, and was
still
moving.

Taking in its surroundings with insane looking, rolling green eyes, it whinnied and tried to come to a halt but failed miserably, demolishing two of the shop's display stands and heading inexorably for the building's rear wall. Ding continued to watch transfixed as the beast's rider spotted where it was heading, shouted something like "oh, farking hells," and promptly threw herself from her saddle. The woman landed on her feet on a display counter, wincing slightly, and span immediately to face three of the things that detached themselves from her mount to fling themselves after her. As they did, she unsheathed a vicious looking gutting knife and slashed it in an arc across the air before her, sending the creatures scrabbling back with yellow goo spurting from their flanks. The horse-thing, meanwhile, skidded itself into a half-turn as it approached the wall and hit it side on. The things still clinging to it were crushed with a sickening crunch, spraying yellow goo upwards in a fountain of gore.

Ding swallowed hard as dust streamed from stressed, supporting beams and the shop began to creak ominously.

The woman threw herself into the air and across the room, taking the time to wave at the old man as she passed. He, in turn, waved back but Ding could see that he was clearly not as pleased to see her as she was he. As the old man regarded the wreck of a room before him, Ding could have sworn that his nose and ears throbbed a bright red, and that he appeared to
grow
slightly. This did not, however, stop him coming to the aid of the woman when she needed it. As she was now engaged in a losing hand-to-hand battle with the remaining creatures, the old man opened a cupboard beneath his sales counter and, with a yell, threw her a glove.

Oh, very useful
, Harmon Ding thought.

But then his ears flapped as she slipped the glove on and blasted one of her assailants over each of his shoulders with an pulse of energy that drew crackling red circles in the air. Ding watched the two creatures crash screeching through the windows of the shop and then turned back, white-faced now, just in time to see the third creature lunge for the old man. The odd thing was, though, he didn't seem to be the old man anymore, and as the creature reached him something big and green and roaring that stood in his place simply tore it apart.

Nice costume
, Ding thought, and fainted.

Or at least tried to. For as he began to collapse something shot from the horse-thing's mouth and wrapped itself about his neck, holding him up.

Oh
, he thought,
it's a tongue. An impossibly long, slimy tongu
e.

Instead of fainting, Ding decided, instead, to scream. As the girlish wail erupted from him, the tongue released him and Harmon Ding ran. Ran as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the shop and away. The last words he heard as he headed for the gates of Gargas were: "Fark, what a day. Who was that by the way?"