uncomfortably, then one answered, “It was open when
we returned to our posts after the battle.”
Caelum frowned in concern. “How could the UrikitesÑ”
The old dwarf raised a hand to cut off his son's question, then stared into the
serpent-bird's eyes for several moments. Finally, he reported, “The door opened of its own
accord.”
“How often does it do that?” Rikus asked, concerned.
“Now and then,” Lyanius answered, giving the mul a cryptic smile. “But I am not worried.
Two Urikites did creep through after the door opened, but they will quickly regret their
mistake.”
“Why's that?” asked Neeva.
The old dwarf looked away without answering, then said, “Leave your weapons with the
guards.”
With that, the old dwarf looked up at the bird sculpture and gave a short, squawking
whistle. The door creaked fully open, its hinges screeching so loudly that Rikus suspected
the sound could be heard on the far side of Kled.
Somewhat reluctantly, Rikus and Neeva left their blades with the guards and followed
Lyanius. The mul did not like being without his weapons, but it was clear the
urhnomus
would tolerate no arguments.
Inside the tunnel, Lyanius retrieved a pair of torches from the floor. Caelum lit them by
simply passing his hand over the tops.
Lyanius eyed Neeva sourly, then said, “Three of us have no need of these.” He was
referring to the fact that, like elves dwarves and muls were gifted with the ability to
sense ambient heat when no other light source was present. But because you're along at my
son's request, young woman,“ he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, ”we will use these
anyway."
After handing one of the brands to his son, Lyanius led the way down a cool runnel. To
keep the sand from cascading in and burying the excavation, the passageway was lined with
wide strips of animal hide, gray and cracked with age. This lining was supported by wooden
beams, the ends of which rested on stone pillars. The narrow corridor was so low that
Rikus and Neeva had to crawl to pass through it.
Just when Rikus was about to ask how much farther they had to go, the tunnel opened up
into a small chamber. The path led to a small stone walkway that looked as though it had
once been a bridge. Beside this causeway lay more than a dozen weapons of various
materials. Several of them looked to be quite ancient, judging by the rot of their wooden
handles or the yellowed brittleness of their bone blades.
Two of the weapons, however, were quite new. A pair of obsidian short swords lay to one
side of the bridge, the white fingers of a man's lifeless hand still gripping the hilt of
each weapon. The remainder of the bodies were not visible, having slowly sunk into the
powdery sand that now filled the moat beneath the bridge. Still, Rikus had no doubt that
the swordsmen wore the red tunic of Hamanu's soldiers, for the shape of their weapons was
identical to those carried by the rest of the Urikite legion.
A deep, full-bellied laugh escaped Lyanius's lips and echoed off the still walls of the
sandy cavern. “Heed the words of the ancients, or such will be your end,” he said, leading
the way across the bridge.
On the other end of the bridge, the small group stopped beneath the arched gateway of a
magnificent stone wall. Inscribed into the spandrel were several strange runes that Rikus
took to be the letters of a written language.
“Beyond this gate, place your trust in the strength of your friendship, not the temper of
your blade,” translated Lyanius, a crooked smile on his ancient lips.
The old dwarf led them to a gateway, where, a few feet above Rikus's head, hung a
portcullis of rusty-red iron. It was supported by thick chains that disappeared through a
set of openings into the gatehouses that flanked the pathway. The walls of these buildings
were constructed of white marble, so
we returned to our posts after the battle.”
Caelum frowned in concern. “How could the UrikitesÑ”
The old dwarf raised a hand to cut off his son's question, then stared into the
serpent-bird's eyes for several moments. Finally, he reported, “The door opened of its own
accord.”
“How often does it do that?” Rikus asked, concerned.
“Now and then,” Lyanius answered, giving the mul a cryptic smile. “But I am not worried.
Two Urikites did creep through after the door opened, but they will quickly regret their
mistake.”
“Why's that?” asked Neeva.
The old dwarf looked away without answering, then said, “Leave your weapons with the
guards.”
With that, the old dwarf looked up at the bird sculpture and gave a short, squawking
whistle. The door creaked fully open, its hinges screeching so loudly that Rikus suspected
the sound could be heard on the far side of Kled.
Somewhat reluctantly, Rikus and Neeva left their blades with the guards and followed
Lyanius. The mul did not like being without his weapons, but it was clear the
urhnomus
would tolerate no arguments.
Inside the tunnel, Lyanius retrieved a pair of torches from the floor. Caelum lit them by
simply passing his hand over the tops.
Lyanius eyed Neeva sourly, then said, “Three of us have no need of these.” He was
referring to the fact that, like elves dwarves and muls were gifted with the ability to
sense ambient heat when no other light source was present. But because you're along at my
son's request, young woman,“ he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, ”we will use these
anyway."
After handing one of the brands to his son, Lyanius led the way down a cool runnel. To
keep the sand from cascading in and burying the excavation, the passageway was lined with
wide strips of animal hide, gray and cracked with age. This lining was supported by wooden
beams, the ends of which rested on stone pillars. The narrow corridor was so low that
Rikus and Neeva had to crawl to pass through it.
Just when Rikus was about to ask how much farther they had to go, the tunnel opened up
into a small chamber. The path led to a small stone walkway that looked as though it had
once been a bridge. Beside this causeway lay more than a dozen weapons of various
materials. Several of them looked to be quite ancient, judging by the rot of their wooden
handles or the yellowed brittleness of their bone blades.
Two of the weapons, however, were quite new. A pair of obsidian short swords lay to one
side of the bridge, the white fingers of a man's lifeless hand still gripping the hilt of
each weapon. The remainder of the bodies were not visible, having slowly sunk into the
powdery sand that now filled the moat beneath the bridge. Still, Rikus had no doubt that
the swordsmen wore the red tunic of Hamanu's soldiers, for the shape of their weapons was
identical to those carried by the rest of the Urikite legion.
A deep, full-bellied laugh escaped Lyanius's lips and echoed off the still walls of the
sandy cavern. “Heed the words of the ancients, or such will be your end,” he said, leading
the way across the bridge.
On the other end of the bridge, the small group stopped beneath the arched gateway of a
magnificent stone wall. Inscribed into the spandrel were several strange runes that Rikus
took to be the letters of a written language.
“Beyond this gate, place your trust in the strength of your friendship, not the temper of
your blade,” translated Lyanius, a crooked smile on his ancient lips.
The old dwarf led them to a gateway, where, a few feet above Rikus's head, hung a
portcullis of rusty-red iron. It was supported by thick chains that disappeared through a
set of openings into the gatehouses that flanked the pathway. The walls of these buildings
were constructed of white marble, so
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