The Dragon Wicked (4 page)

Gruum awakened in the blasted lands of Yserth. There were umber rocks and ridges of clay in every direction, and the ground smoked underfoot. He got to his feet and looked for Nadja. He saw her nearby, speaking to the towering hulk of red scales known as Yserth.

He felt very sorry to be here, suddenly. Every action he’d taken seemed suddenly wrong. He’d been Therian’s faithful retainer for so long, and now they’d come to blows. Perhaps, he’d turned his blade against the wrong comrade. Maybe this strange female was the problem and she
should
be returned to her father. He stared at Nadja as she conversed with the Dragon. Wasn’t she the greatest of traitors? Wasn’t she the one consorting with the worst enemies of her kingdom?

Gruum tried to shake these thoughts from his mind. He reminded himself he only needed to survive each moment to the next. Weightier decisions could be postponed. Sweating in the heat and from fear, he walked slowly closer to the two of them. He could see they conversed, but could not hear the words.

The Dragon’s lower body was submerged in a lake of brilliant lava. The lake was orange-red and glowed like shimmering coals. Yserth’s great head turned on a neck that was as thick as Corium’s greatest tower. Two baleful eyes gazed down from the head that rode atop the towering neck. The eyes slid to Gruum and paused there, gazing at him intelligently.

“There is the insect now,” Yserth said, raising his voice to it natural volume. The deep, bass voice hurt Gruum’s ears and was almost too low to comprehend.

“Hail Yserth, master of this domain!” cried Gruum. He thought of dropping to his knees, but controlled the urge. He doubted groveling would help his case anyway, and if he were to die again, he wanted to at least do it while standing.

Yserth did not seem happy to greet him. “When first we met, insect, I required a gift from you upon your return.”

“I have brought you Nadja, milord, a Hyborean princess in her prime.”

The Dragon’s eyes slid to Nadja, who seemed undisturbed by Gruum’s statement. Yserth’s nostrils flared and puffs of smoke rolled out.

“This is not your dream. You did not open the way, so you may not master her and offer her to me.”

Gruum shrugged. “My gift to you consists of her beauty and charm.”

“The last time you invaded my realm I told you I would seek you out if ever I desired to speak with you.”

“I’m in Nadja’s dream,” Gruum said. “I did not come seeking you. I simply joined in her slumbering travels unaware of the destination.”

Yserth turned his great head to face Nadja next. “Will you allow me to indulge myself with this morsel of meat and dust? It is in your power, as the one who dreams, to grant me such a boon. I will not chew, and he will stay living for a long time as he is thoroughly digested.”

Nadja shook her pretty head. She moved to stand close to Gruum. “I’m sorry. Not this time. But—if he displeases me greatly, my answer may change.”

Yserth dragged his belly a step forward. The lava clinging to his scales dripped off in smoldering chunks. He looked from one human to the other. “You reveal yourselves.”

“How so?” she asked.

“You have pair-bonded. You are mates.”

“We are not mates…not exactly,” Nadja said. She stole a glance at Gruum, who dared to glance back.

The Dragon snorted, and molten material dribbled from its snout. “Like all short-lived creatures, you over-complicate a simple matter. If you have mated, you are mates!”

“Very well, call it what you will,” Nadja said.

Gruum chided himself for cowardice. He knew that if the Dragon slew him he would simply be cast back into the princess’ straw bed. But he still feared the pain and terror of experiencing death again. “May I speak, lord?” he asked as humbly as he could.

Gruum’s words seemed to offend Yserth. He twisted his neck and shortened it to look upon Gruum. “If you must,” he rumbled.

“Might it be possible for you to aid us? We wish to leave Hyborea and go to sunlit lands.”

“Traitors, eh?” the Dragon huffed. “Disgusting! The entire species should be burned.”

“But will you help?”

“You barely need my help. You carry upon your person your route from Hyborea.”

Gruum looked down at himself in surprise. He saw no wings, nor magical trappings. “What do you mean?”

“The soul flask, fool,” said the Dragon impatiently. “Bring it here.”

Gruum dug it out, stepped forward and placed the vial which had been carved of amber onto the rock shelf between them. He backed away hurriedly.

Yserth bent down and gave a tiny, vaporous puff. The amber vial was thus changed. The fluid inside no longer resembled liquid sunlight. Instead, it roiled and churned, now possessing the orange heart of an ember in a bed of coals.

“What should I do with it?” asked Gruum, slinking forward to snatch it from the boulder. It as hot to the touch and he stuffed it into his belt pouch.

“Whatever needs doing,” the Dragon said.

Gruum stared up at the god. “If I were to serve you, could you rekindle the Sun?”

“How would I do that?” the Dragon asked slowly.

“You have power over flame—and what is the Sun but a great flame in the sky?”

The Dragon’s head shook slowly. “You understand so little of your quest. I cannot simply puff fire into the sky and make the Sun blaze brighter. But there are other ways I could help you…should I be inclined to do so.”

Gruum looked down at the blasted rocks his boots stood upon. When they’d first arrived, the Dragon had mockingly called them traitors. Was the great beast correct?

“I grow bored with your indecision,” the Dragon rumbled. Yserth’s mouth made a sucking, whistling sound. Gruum jerked his head back up. His eyes widened as he realized Yserth was drawing in a deep breath. In sudden panic, he understood the god was about to release a blast of flame that would burn him down to his boots.

Nadja grabbed his hand. Gruum threw his other arm up to ward off the coming blaze. He placed his body in front of Nadja. Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet opened and he fell into nothingness. Flames washed down—a gush of brilliance that obliterated the spot where they had stood a moment before.

The void was very cold. Gruum remembered, in the last instant, to hold his breath and grab onto Nadja. The two fell through the space between worlds and he felt only the intense cold and the circle of Nadja’s arms, which were wrapped tightly around him.

When they returned to the world of light and sound, Gruum was shocked to realize they were not back in their bed of straw. They were still in Yserth’s world, and worse—far worse—they were still falling. They had appeared at a great height. They fell from a great height. The fall took several seconds, and Gruum screamed as he fell. He clutched at Nadja, who looked at him strangely.

They struck the ground and for a brief time Gruum still lived. He could feel every inch of his smashed body. After long moments of suffering, death finally took him.

Gruum awoke on the straw bed, gasping and sick. He rolled off the bed to his feet, but was unable to stand. Nadja stood nude on the stone floor nearby, looking at him in mild concern.

“You do not travel well,” she said.

“Why did you drop us from the sky?” he demanded when he could speak.

“Wasn’t that better than burning to death?”

Gruum shook his head, uncertain of the answer. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he said. He rose and found his clothing. His head ached slightly from too much drink. His eyes slid to watch Nadja as she dressed. She was such a refined young woman—not like any he’d ever lain with before. Thinking about what he had done in this hidden bedchamber, he had new sympathy for Therian, who had lain with Anduin. Nadja was not a Dragon of course—possibly she was something stranger. Despite her appearance, he doubted her blood was more than a quarter human. He tried to gather his thoughts, but was not sure of his emotions. Should he be exultant…or sick? Should he reach for her…or run away into the palace, screaming?

Nadja turned and caught him looking at her. She smiled, misinterpreting his frank gaze as one of carnal interest. “What do we do now?” she asked.

Gruum fished out the flask of amber, which still held Egred’s tormented soul. The bottle glowed orange now, just as it had in his dream. Somehow, the essence of it had captured a portion of Yserth’s flame. The Dragon had said he must do with it what must be done. He thought now he understood the god’s meaning.

“You are the sole princess in this kingdom, are you not?” he asked, still staring at the flask in his hand. Inside, Egred’s red soul twisted slowly, like a rippling reflection of sunlight on a blood-filled pond.

“Yes,” she said.

“There are no other heirs, then?”

“I suppose not. What is your meaning?”

“We cannot escape this place,” Gruum said thoughtfully. “Your father is King here, and he has already attempted to slay me once. I will go and have words with him.”

Nadja dressed slowly. She came to him, adjusting her clothing. She ran her hands over him, and he felt their coolness even through his tunic. “Will you tell him about us?” she asked quietly.

“If he asks.”

“He will kill you then.”

“Possibly,” he said, shrugging. “But he wants me dead now, so it matters little.”

“I don’t wish you dead.”

Gruum snorted. “Could you not reanimate me?”

Nadja ran a freezing finger around his neck. The touch was light and tingled against his skin. She shook her head. “It would not be the same Gruum.”

He looked down at her, and saw she was serious. He suppressed a shudder. His bitter joke had turned into a frightening possibility. He hoped that when he died, his soul would not be left haunting this world, and his body would be burnt to ash so none could make free with his corpse.

Nadja stared at him intensely.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her at last, noticing her scrutiny.

“Whether I should help you or not.”

“I would not ask you to lift a hand against your own sire.”

“You have not asked,” she said.

“Then I will be more clear,” Gruum said. “Stay out of this conflict.”

Nadja nodded. “As you will. What will you do?”

“There is a passage behind the King’s apartments. It is the place I first met your father.”

“I know it well,” Nadja said. With a flickering smile, she kissed him with cool lips. A tiny spot of burning sensation remained behind on his cheek where her lips had touched him. He saw her hands make a tiny motion, as if she flicked water from her fingers.

Suddenly, he was falling. The stone floor under his feet had vanished. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, knowing well what would come next.

The stone floor swallowed him and a moment later he stood in another place. This time he did not stumble or fall. He set his feet, and when the ground became solid under them again, he stood firmly. He opened his eyes, and at first the utter darkness was disconcerting. He felt about himself and found walls of cool stone. The chamber echoed faintly with the distant sounds of moving feet. He fumbled out a candle stub and struggled to light it. When the tiny glow illuminated his surroundings, he found he was indeed in the passages in the upper palace. He had been here before, long ago, when he had come to assassinate Therian. In the employ of the deceased Baron Sloan, he had first met the King and been introduced to sorcery of the most terrifying sort.

Gruum pushed away such thoughts. He cupped the tiny flame in his hand, lest it give him away by flickering behind the peepholes that were drilled here and there into the various apartments. Moving with stealth, he located the door that led to the King’s bedchamber. He pulled out the flask then, which held Egred. The thing inside swirled. Did Egred somehow divine his intentions? Gruum tried not to think about it as he unscrewed the stopper twice around.

Barely contained, Egred’s essence swirled faster. The light of the flask now illuminated the passage more brightly than did Gruum’s taper. Concerned that the light might be noticed somehow, Gruum carefully stood the flask upright and draped his cloak over it. He carefully gauged the distance between the secret door and the flask, calculating where a man’s foot might naturally land as it came through. When satisfied, he gave Egred’s flask another tiny tweak, almost opening it completely. He could feel heat from inside. He wondered what emotions Egred might be feeling—curiosity, triumph or simple rage?

He backed away slowly from the trap he’d laid. When safely distant, he slipped through another exit into an unused chamber. Straightening his clothing and putting on an unconcerned expression, he stepped out into the palace corridors.

It was the depths of night. Most of the palace slept. Far off, Gruum could hear the tread of watchmen, circling boredly on their routes. None dared patrol this section of the palace, however. Patrolling here was not needed, not appreciated, and considered by all with an ounce of wisdom to be dangerous for the guardsmen.

Gruum did not skulk in the shadows. He moved without stealth or guile to the King’s apartments. He reached up with his hand and rapped upon the heavy doors. The doors swung open soon after. Silently, they revealed a fire lit scene within. Therian stood there, having opened the door without the aid of sorcery. Gruum was startled to find himself face-to-face with his master, but he struggled to contain himself, to appear confident.

Therian looked him over, flicking his eyes up and down. Half his pale mouth twisted upward in a slight smile. “And so another lost cur returns to haunt me,” the King said.

“There are words that must be said, milord.”

“Enter then, by all means,” replied Therian with mock civility. He threw the door wide.

Gruum’s mouth drew tight and his body itched with fear as he stepped past the King. He tried his best not to let any of his emotions show and walked with his characteristic swagger. Internally, he feared his master’s blades. In one instant, as he passed by, Seeker might well be unsheathed and plunged between his ribs.

Gruum survived the passage and stood with seemingly boundless confidence in his master’s chambers. He felt none of his projected bravado. Internally, he all but trembled in terror. He regretted having come here. His plan was foolish—bordering on the absurd. How could he hope to best this monster, this King of deceit and magic? The mere thought was a delusion. Without meaning to, his eyes flicked to the spot near the vast bed where he knew the secret door lay. It looked so far away. He would require a dozen steps just to get there. He questioned his ability to work the mechanism fast enough as well. He needed something to delay his master and thus give him time to fumble with the hidden catch.

Another thought came to Gruum then. A change of plan. Perhaps he could talk his master out of this confrontation. Perhaps, if he was contrite enough, he could beg his way back into the King’s good graces. He turned to judge Therian’s expression.

It was grim. The King stood with one hand on the pommel of each of his twin swords. His eyes blazed with an internal light Gruum knew well. Those that saw Therian’s eyes blaze like that rarely drew breath much longer. This King was not a man of mercy and compassion. He was apt instead to behave with sudden, decisive action. Therian’s hesitation, therefore, was not for Gruum’s benefit. The King wanted something, and thus put up with this charade.

“You want to know something,” Gruum said. “What is it?”

Therian’s face flickered dangerously. “I would like to know the extent of your treachery. For how long have you played me false?”

“I have never done so, milord.”

Therian lost control. He took three steps forward. His gloved hand rose, reaching toward Gruum’s face.

Having had enough of hair-pulling and humiliation, Gruum’s blades appeared in his hands with a smooth, rasping sound. Therian halted his angry advance, seeing the way of things, but did not draw his own blades. Not yet.

Therian nodded. “How many times have you dreamt with the Dragons behind my back?”

“Several, milord,” Gruum said, allowing his blades to droop to his sides, but without putting them away.

“With both the Red…and the Black?”

“Yes.”

“And you do not call this treachery?”

Gruum shrugged. “It was not my intention to meet them. They called me, or by some accident of association with you, I found them.”

Therian nodded, suddenly calm again. Gruum knew the King’s demeanor was a carefully manufactured pretense.

“So—you have never intentionally gone to meet a Dragon?” Therian asked. “You have never sought an audience with a god, and had one granted?”

Gruum hesitated. “I would not put it so, milord.”

Therian’s smile began slowly, and then grew until it was a toothy grimace. “I see.”

The King stepped toward his bed, where a bed stand stood near. He beckoned to Gruum, but the rogue stood motionless. Gruum followed the King, but only with his eyes.

“We’ve had many arduous adventures, you and I,” Therian said.

Gruum nodded slowly, watching the King as a man might watch a venomous snake.

“Remember the blue blood of the ice giant?” Therian asked. “The arm-wrestling in Kem and the endless fight with Humusi? What of the Ogre in the forests of Devon? Always, have I been there for you.”

“And I for you, sire,” Gruum countered, taking a few steps closer. He did not like what the King was implying. “Recall the shadow I allowed to drive me mad for your benefit? And the many times I fought face-to-face with Vosh and his legions of dead?”

“Recall the living cloaks in the broken tower, Gruum?” Therian asked. “I pulled one off your back.”

Gruum looked thoughtful. “Yes, milord. For that, I am forever grateful.”

“So…where is your own cloak this eve, Gruum?”

Gruum’s mouth opened a fraction and froze there. He did not answer.

Therian stared at him. He reached out with the tip of Seeker and gave a tiny thrust. There was something there, something on the bed stand he stood near. The King stabbed through a swath of dark cloth. He lifted it gently. Gruum recognized the cloth as it moved. It was a garment. It was in fact, his own cloak.

Hidden beneath the cloak was a flask of amber. Egred’s essence was still inside, twisting and shining. The light of the furious spirit flared brightly when the bottle was revealed, bathing the room with luminescence.

“Egred is quite lighting up the room,” Therian remarked. “Probably the first useful service the ghost has ever managed.”

Gruum’s breath had become labored. His eyes flicked to the secret exit—but Therian was standing in front of it. He stole a glance over his shoulder, toward the huge doors. The doors had silently closed of their own accord—and in any case, it was too far to run. Therian would leap upon him from behind and ride him down with two blades planted in his spine before he’d made it halfway. He dared not turn his back on the sorcerer for a second.

When he flicked his eyes forward again, Gruum sucked in his breath. Therian was standing near. Almost within striking distance. He had not yet drawn his swords, however.

“Did you really think,” Therian asked quietly, “a presence such as this infected spirit could be brought so near me without detection? I’m insulted you have so little regard for my sorcerous talents.”

“I regard them very highly indeed, milord.”

“Do you count me an idiot, then?”

“No lord!”

“Why then would you think I would not recognize the handiwork of an enemy god?”

Gruum glanced at the flask. It was noticeably redder than when they had first trapped Egred within it. Gazing upon it now, he thought that even a fool would have been reminded of Yserth’s fire.

Gruum knew then that he was about to die. His master could not be beaten. As always, he seemed one step ahead. He grew angry at his fate. He had participated for so long in so many grim enterprises, only to have it all come to this.

“It’s not
you
I oppose, my King. Neither is it our quest—I wish for nothing more than to bring peace, light and warmth back to the world.”

“Go on. Your ceaseless, worm-like lies entertain me.”

“She will never help you. You seek to use her for your ends, but the Dragons always use us for theirs. We are never their masters.”

Therian sneered. “You would have me believe that all this treachery is a bout of cowardice on your part? That you have lost your nerve?”

“Not just that, milord, but I feel we have sacrificed enough. There has been enough blood and death in this land and others. All Anduin does is sit like a fat spider-queen in her nest, ordering you about the place to bring destruction and rapine to our world. And what have we to show for it? The world grows darker and colder with each passing month.”

Therian stared at him for a few seconds. “Did you corrupt my daughter?”

Gruum laughed. It was a wild, unpleasant sound. “Corrupt her? Are you blind, man? She slays her own nursemaids. She walks the night and slips between the worlds like a ghost. She consorts with the dead with delight in her eyes.”

“You did it, didn’t you? You
dared
to bed a princess?”

“And you would dare slay her for the pleasure of a heartless goddess?” Gruum asked, feeling anger well up within him for all the lost, wasted souls he’d watched slip by him. “I will not stand for it!”

Gruum attacked then. His blades came up. The saber thrust high, the dagger low, aiming for the leg. He used all the speed he had within his coiled body.

Therian’s swords flickered out to meet his lunge. Seeker deflected the saber while Succor touched the dagger. The dagger slid past, however. Such was the speed and surprise of the assault, Gruum managed to score the King’s thigh. It was only a scratch, but it drew red blood.

Therian countered, and the two fought for ten strokes more. Gruum’s emotion drove his blades. He slashed, was parried, then thrust and had to parry the riposte.

Therian initially retreated in surprise, but he quickly regained his composure. He reclaimed the initiative and came on with great speed and power. He slashed, thrust and hacked. Gruum was forced onto the defensive. Gruum began to circle, knowing he could not best his King. But he had something else in mind.

The King pressed forward suddenly, and as Gruum’s legs were trapped with the bed behind him, there was no easy retreat. Gruum was forced to hop backward onto the bed, and the uneven footing there betrayed him. Succor flashed out and found his calf.

Gruum hissed through his teeth. Blood ran down into his boot. He did not have time to look down, to check the wound. But he knew in the goodness of time it would stiffen and slow him. He had few options left.

With a quick hand-motion, he flipped his dagger around, grabbing it by the point rather than the hilt. He drew back and threw it with deadly accuracy.

Therian dodged to one side, but he need not have. The dagger was not aimed at him. Instead, it flipped once before striking the flask on the bed stand pommel-first with full force. The amber flask shattered, and everything changed.