Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion by Troy Denning Page B
Authors: Troy Denning
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then led them through a short
tunnel lined by chest-high arrow loops. On the other side, Lyanius's dwarves had dug a
series of vaults, revealing the outer bailey of a great castle.
As they passed through this area, Rikus peered into the windows of what had been the shops
and homes of the castle's smiths, tanners, fletchers, armorers, and a dozen other
craftsmen. Their tools, made mostly from steel and iron, still hung in the racks where
they had been neatly stored thousands of years ago. Rikus could not help gaping at the
vast treasury of metal.
They passed through another gate and into the inner bailey. In the center of this
courtyard, a square keep of white marble rose high overhead, the roof lost in the sand
overhead. At each corner of the keep stood a round tower, its arrow loops commanding much
of the courtyard below.
“This is the Tower of Buryn, home to dwarven kings for three thousand years.” Lyanius
proudly opened the doors.
“Three thousand years?” gasped Neeva. “How do you know?”
The old dwarf frowned at her as if she were a child. “I know,” he answered, motioning her
and Rikus inside.
On each side of the entrance foyer sat a pair of stone benches, one sized for the short
legs of the dwarves and one for the longer legs of humans. In the corners stood full suits
of dwarven plate, the shaft of a double-bladed battle-axe gripped in the armor's
gauntlets. Both the armor and the weapons were made of polished steel, gleaming as
brilliantly as the day they had been forged.
Remembering the greeting they had received at the city gates, Rikus cautiously studied the
fantastic armor. Fortunately, behind the helms' visors he saw neither gleaming eyes nor
anything but dark emptiness. Nevertheless, the mul did notice that the suits were too
small for a dwarf. While they were about the right height, they were far from broad enough
for the massive shoulders and bulging limbs typical of the dwarven race.
Noticing the mul's careful study of the armor, Lyanius said, “Our ancestors were not as
robust as we are today.” The old dwarf's cheeks reddened and he looked away. “They even
had some hair,” he added testily.
Neeva raised an eyebrow, and Rikus bit his lips to keep from showing his own aversion.
Muls and dwarves generally prided themselves on their clean skin and scalps. The idea of
having their bodies covered by a matted growth of sweaty hair was considered repulsive by
most members of both races.
Caelum walked into the next open area, a huge hallway running the perimeter of the keep.
The floor was arranged in a pattern of polished black and white squares. At even spaces
along the walls, tall white columns supported the vaulted ceiling above. Between each set
of arches was a mural painted directly onto the wall.
Neeva stepped over to the nearest and inspected it closely. “You don't exaggerate, do you
Lyanius?” she asked. “When you said hair, I didn't imagine anything like this!”
Rikus joined her. The painting before Neeva portrayed a dwarf dressed in a full suit of
golden plate armor, a huge war-club cradled in his arms. From beneath his golden crown
cascaded a huge mop of unruly hair that hung well past his shoulders. That was not the
worst of it, either. His face was lost beneath a thick beard that started just below his
eyes and tumbled in a tangled mass clear down to his belly.
“Come along!” ordered Lyanius. “I didn't bring you here to mock my ancestors.”
He hustled them down the hall, Caelum following close behind. As they passed the other
murals, the mul saw that they, too, portrayed grossly bearded dwarves. The painting
usually depicted dwarves standing in the somber halls of dimly lit keeps or in the dark
chambers of some vast cave.
When he reached the last mural in the line, Rikus stopped. He had no doubt that the
picture depicted the guardian of the city, King
tunnel lined by chest-high arrow loops. On the other side, Lyanius's dwarves had dug a
series of vaults, revealing the outer bailey of a great castle.
As they passed through this area, Rikus peered into the windows of what had been the shops
and homes of the castle's smiths, tanners, fletchers, armorers, and a dozen other
craftsmen. Their tools, made mostly from steel and iron, still hung in the racks where
they had been neatly stored thousands of years ago. Rikus could not help gaping at the
vast treasury of metal.
They passed through another gate and into the inner bailey. In the center of this
courtyard, a square keep of white marble rose high overhead, the roof lost in the sand
overhead. At each corner of the keep stood a round tower, its arrow loops commanding much
of the courtyard below.
“This is the Tower of Buryn, home to dwarven kings for three thousand years.” Lyanius
proudly opened the doors.
“Three thousand years?” gasped Neeva. “How do you know?”
The old dwarf frowned at her as if she were a child. “I know,” he answered, motioning her
and Rikus inside.
On each side of the entrance foyer sat a pair of stone benches, one sized for the short
legs of the dwarves and one for the longer legs of humans. In the corners stood full suits
of dwarven plate, the shaft of a double-bladed battle-axe gripped in the armor's
gauntlets. Both the armor and the weapons were made of polished steel, gleaming as
brilliantly as the day they had been forged.
Remembering the greeting they had received at the city gates, Rikus cautiously studied the
fantastic armor. Fortunately, behind the helms' visors he saw neither gleaming eyes nor
anything but dark emptiness. Nevertheless, the mul did notice that the suits were too
small for a dwarf. While they were about the right height, they were far from broad enough
for the massive shoulders and bulging limbs typical of the dwarven race.
Noticing the mul's careful study of the armor, Lyanius said, “Our ancestors were not as
robust as we are today.” The old dwarf's cheeks reddened and he looked away. “They even
had some hair,” he added testily.
Neeva raised an eyebrow, and Rikus bit his lips to keep from showing his own aversion.
Muls and dwarves generally prided themselves on their clean skin and scalps. The idea of
having their bodies covered by a matted growth of sweaty hair was considered repulsive by
most members of both races.
Caelum walked into the next open area, a huge hallway running the perimeter of the keep.
The floor was arranged in a pattern of polished black and white squares. At even spaces
along the walls, tall white columns supported the vaulted ceiling above. Between each set
of arches was a mural painted directly onto the wall.
Neeva stepped over to the nearest and inspected it closely. “You don't exaggerate, do you
Lyanius?” she asked. “When you said hair, I didn't imagine anything like this!”
Rikus joined her. The painting before Neeva portrayed a dwarf dressed in a full suit of
golden plate armor, a huge war-club cradled in his arms. From beneath his golden crown
cascaded a huge mop of unruly hair that hung well past his shoulders. That was not the
worst of it, either. His face was lost beneath a thick beard that started just below his
eyes and tumbled in a tangled mass clear down to his belly.
“Come along!” ordered Lyanius. “I didn't bring you here to mock my ancestors.”
He hustled them down the hall, Caelum following close behind. As they passed the other
murals, the mul saw that they, too, portrayed grossly bearded dwarves. The painting
usually depicted dwarves standing in the somber halls of dimly lit keeps or in the dark
chambers of some vast cave.
When he reached the last mural in the line, Rikus stopped. He had no doubt that the
picture depicted the guardian of the city, King
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