Out of Custody

(Part 60 of Eternity’s Eclipse)
(Book 5 of the Fantasian Series)

“Well? What do you think?” the dragon asked proudly.

He had a right to his inflated ego. Metalwork had been his specialty, his hidden talent discovered only after the would-be-fatal dark elven ritual. But his new weapon – what would likely be his final creation – was the pinnacle of centuries of perfecting that craft.

The axe was double-bladed, though with one edge far longer than the other. The edge itself was unquestionably effective, its surface shaped from adamant ore and imbued with the telltale sparkle of magic. But the design was impressive in and of itself, sloped with the fluid arches of dwarven handiwork so that the weapon looked as dangerous as it was.

But the most effort had gone into not the larger of the two blades, but the smallest. Typically the design called for the back side of the weapon to be simple – a spike or, at times, simply a miniature version of the main head. But instead Kerugarn had painstakingly worked the metal into what was distinctly the head of a dragon: its expression as merciless as its lifelike counterpart.

Tyus alone appreciated the eyes, though. They were made from gemstones, not the same ore that comprised the rest of the dark metal; but they were not traditional stones like the rubies, sapphires, and emeralds that adorned most blades. They were pale gray, subtle and unremarkable to the average viewer. But Tyus had seen the same eyes before: it was difficult to forget the Gray Eyes of the Forest.

They were, after all, Venom’s eyes.

“I think,” Autumn pointed out, tapping a finger experimentally against the battleaxe’s edge “that you had an interesting week.”

“You were out of our ‘prison cell’ more often that you were here.” Twi’zari recalled. She gestured towards the axe and smiled, shaking her head.

“Now I see why!”

“This didn’t take me all week!” the dragon scoffed, feigning offense. “I’m not exactly new at this, after all. One big project takes me maybe… what… three or four days?”

“Then what, pray tell,” Twi’zari asked, rolling her eyes in a nonverbal scoff “occupied the rest of your time? Do any sightseeing with your new friends? Meet any clean-shaven women? Gulp down a few cold ones with the Council of the Twelve Beards?”

“They wouldn’t let me out of the forge.” Kerugarn explained, an irritated vein pulsing to life along one of his temples. “So I spent my time there. One project only takes a couple of days; but who said I only worked on one project?”

The dragon leaned back, whispering something to one of their dwarven guards. The bearded man nodded and wrapped his knuckles several times on the door; and, opening it slightly, one of his fellows outside slipped something through the gap.

“Not pointing any fingers, a certain elf lost your weapons during our escape on the surface.” The dragon said – mischievously jabbing a thumb Autumn’s way. “Last I recall you had several rather infamous daggers in your possession. Now? I can help you restore what you’ve lost.”

At one point in time, Tyus’s sister had had nearly a dozen daggers in her possession – rigged to a system of lightweight straps and cords that allowed them to be easily accessed by her dexterous hands. The whole of the elaborate system had plummeted to an unseen recess somewhere on the forest floor during the fight along the elven walkways; and, albeit generous, the two measly knives the reptilian smith offered her in its place was somewhat deflating.

“Thanks!” she said, fighting to keep her voice generous and excited despite the memory of the loss.

He arched a brow, clearly suspicious. Nevertheless he ignored the negative emotion and instead passed along the remainder of his gift: a pair of metallic bracelets that, aside from several glowing runes, were otherwise unremarkable.

“You’re giving me a very… unique fashion statement.” She observed, snapping the bands on her wrists and admiring them in the low light.

“I do my best!” he assured her. There was a proud, pompous look on his muzzle – one that gave him an aura of superiority, like he knew something she didn’t but was hoping desperately she could discover the fact for herself.

Twi’zari weighed the daggers in her hands, flipping one up and catching it mid-air. She certainly didn’t feel anything – special, different, or otherwise. The weapons were no lighter in her hands; her fingers were no more agile than they were minutes before; the edges of the knives seemed no sharper and – while only time could tell – they appeared no less susceptible to factors like wear and rust.

But, like the bands, her daggers had their hilts outlined in glowing runes; and the only noteworthy coalition the assassin could derive between the two halves of her unexpected gift was that the symbols across the bracelets matched those on her weapons. But they seemed disassociated otherwise, even when she swapped the daggers between her hands and touched the items together.

“Well… thanks.” She mumbled, unofficially giving up. “I don’t suppose you brought me sheathes for these things?”

“What? Of course not!” Kerugarn snorted, shaking his head at the unforeseen absurdity of the question.

“So… where do I put them?”

“Wherever you want?” he suggested. Feeling the need to act out an example, he wrenched one knife from her palm and slammed it down – much to the dismay of the guards – in the stone tabletop. There it remained, upright and unmoving throughout the dark elf’s moment of confusion.

“And when I need it?” she demanded. “How do I get it back?”

The twinkle in the smith’s eye promised they were getting somewhere. He shrugged – though it was more a congratulatory gesture than an uncaring one.

Twi’zari changed her tactic, concentrating intently on the blade in question. She took a mental bead on the far wall – a spot just to the left of the rather unflattering painting of some former dwarven queen. She flicked her wrist as if to throw the dagger, concentrating on both the act and the weapon it should have involved; and, just before she completed the gesture, she felt the knife’s familiar weight in her palm.

A moment later it was gone again; and, a moment after that, the blade slammed into the wall mere inches from the bearded queen. The guards were, again, dismayed; but Twi’zari was triumphant.

“You had, what, ten daggers before?” the dragon recalled. “Now you have as many as you need.”

Twi’zari was ready to give much more sincere thanks. She started forward and caught herself mid-way through a hug; then, instead, turned the motion into a friendly punch to the arm.

“You’re welcome.” He returned with a grin, far more satisfied.

For the second time since the smith’s return a knock sounded at the door – though, this time, it came from the other side. Four heads turned as a fifth poked its way through the open doorway – one whose long beard and broad shoulders marked it as Klor’s.

“If ye’re givin’ out gifts,” the dwarf offered “I’ve got one for all of ye: ye’re free to go.”

“Time passes quickly.” Twi’zari growled sarcastically. She rose to go, planting her second weapon in the wall for good measure – but out of relief, not malice.

“Oi!” Klor barked, shaking his head with a sour grunt. “Ye don’t just get to stroll out through the city gate! King Dimas wants to see ye one last time before ye leave – protocol and all.”

The fact offered no relief. There was an edge to his voice – one that was poorly hidden and that bode even poorer tidings. It wasn’t a sadness to see a new friend go or an eagerness to drive two dark elves out of his city: it was timid, anxious, and possibly even nervous.

And it guaranteed that their meeting with the king of the dwarves wasn’t just protocol.

* * * * *

The Council of the Twelve Beards was not in session – but, even alone, the King of the Dwarves was no less daunting. In place of his supervisors the hall was lined with guards, each outfitted in flawless suits of adamant armor and armed with varying weapons of a similar caliber. Albeit scheduled for release, the four companions were not honored guests: they were still prisoners.

Klor and his small escort of soldiers brought the quartet to the center of the room, standing them before King Dimas like the condemned before a firing squad. Their hands were tightly bound in metal manacles, their every motion analyzed carefully from behind by the surrounding military personnel. And, if the setting itself was not daunting enough, four guards – including Klor himself – stood at their backs, close enough to reach out and grab anyone bold enough to act against the monarchy.

“As best as we can tell,” the king said after the room had settled “ye have behaved yerselves during your stay here. For that I am grateful. But the dangerous question is how ye will behave yerselves after you leave?”

“We don’t exactly have a grudge with your people.” Tyus interjected. A collective mutter swept the congregation, implying he was out of place to speak out of turn; but he was already underway and barreled on with his argument.

“I, personally, haven’t fought any of your people – during my time in Tak or on the surface. I believe my sister can say the same; and our smith can’t say he’s gone much further than the Brek’enwrath complex in the last hundred years or so.”

“Guilty as charged.” Kerugarn said, raising his shackled hands with a smirk.

“And Autumn, certainly, isn’t an enemy of your people.” Tyus finished, nodding politely towards the elf.

Another face in the crowd moved – winced, as if in pain. The dark elf flashed his eyes towards the dwarf, recognizing Durir among the gathering. He was as stern and cold as ever; but, unlike their first encounter, the commander was restless and agitated – potentially conflicted?

“But ye aren’t a friend of our people, either.” Dimas pointed out matter-of-factly. “Ye have no reason to keep the secrets of our society once you leave this place – ye have ever reason not to, once you return to your own! I can’t have that.”

“We weren’t marched through the gates of your city: we were bound.” Tyus reminded him. “Blindfold us, take us out; we don’t know how we got here, and we won’t know how we got back. We won’t have any ability to rat you out, even if we wanted to!”

“There are always flashes of memory.” The king snapped – even though he seemed to see the elf’s point. “Nostalgia is a dangerous thing, and I can’t have it marching into the hands of my enemies.”

There was a loud crack and a flash of pain. The guards at their backs were no longer waiting for the prisoners to act: they were acting themselves, cracking the shafts of their pole-arms against the backs of the quartet’s shins. They were on their knees, their hair gruffly pulled back so they faced the ceiling and their ankles violently crushed by dwarven boots so they could not rise.

“So this was all leading to an execution?” the assassin demanded.

Something came into his field of view – something whose wide shoulders and bearded face marked him as a dwarf. It wasn’t Dimas but Durir; and there wasn’t an executioner’s axe in his open palm but a single, nondescript flat stone.

“Ye won’t be killed – not here.” The commander assured him. The dwarf flexed, poising his stone above Tyus’s mouth and gesturing down. His other hand moved, revealing a second stone – one smaller and roughly spherical in shape.

The two rocks were brought together in a shower of sparks. The smaller was disintegrated almost on contact, dissolving into tiny gravel-sized fragments. Gradually they crumpled and fell away, dusting Tyus’s nose and forehead before tumbling away across the tiled floor; but they left their mark, violently changing the plain surface of the second stone to a series of crisscrossed blue lines wherever they touched.

“Open yer mouth.” Durir ordered gruffly.

“For what? What is that going to do?” Autumn demanded an arm’s length away.

“It is a Philosopher’s Stone.” The dwarf explained. His voice had become gentler, sympathetic and remorseful; but it still had an air of command, a hint of authority.

“These were designed by a conclave of ancient dwarves that lived in this region. They were master smiths and reveled in teaching their craft to outsiders; but they also feared the response if greedy ears learned of their work. They gained their name from other learned minds: those that learned the work of the dwarves would keep the knowledge, but they would be unable to speak certain key words. To do so would cause the stones to combust – and considering yer swallowing them, ye wouldn’t like that too much.”

“I assume key words include information about the city?” Twi’zari reasoned.

“Aye, they do.” Durir agreed. “But they don’t encompass the other key enchantment we’ve put on… these Philosopher’s Stones.”

“That being?” Kerugarn asked anxiously.

“Open yer mouths.” The commander instructed. It was the last time he’d give the order: four waiting pikes were ready to gouge any throats that did not gulp down the rocks.

The companions begrudgingly complied. Durir took the privilege of feeding Tyus and Twi’zari himself; the other two were left to two other dwarves – one of which was Klor. Approaching the dragon, however, he gave Kerugarn neither a scolding nor a bitter look: it was a pointed stare, a glare that seemed to demand something.

Though what, the reptilian smith could not say.

“So,” Tyus asked, repressing a gag and massaging his jugular “what’s your second enchantment?”

“Yer execution.” Durir growled. He passed his judging gaze from man, to man, to woman; and, only when it reached Autumn, did he pause and seem to reflect on the fact.

“Excuse me?” Twi’zari prompted when the soldier did not elaborate.

“Yer stones,” he continued, his eyes distant but locked pityingly on the surface elf “won’t just combust if ye mention us or the city. Ye’ll find a way to communicate without speech, without actually saying where ye’ve been – but only if ye have enough time. One week from now… yer stones will detonate on their own.”

As if to assure them of the fact, the rocks in their stomachs gave a violent pulse – a sensation that forced a wave of hot pain up their throats to reverberate agonizingly in their skulls. It brought fear with it; but, as it passed, there was only anger.

Tyus’s nails began to change, elongating into claws. His sister flicked her wrist, hiding the blade of one of her new knives in the depths of a sleeve. Kerugarn’s muscles tensed, yearning to be put to use. Autumn alone did not react, did not seem capable of conscious thought; but she was no less condemned, whether or not they acted or waited.

Their only hesitation was the manacles and finding a way to be rid of them. It was all the time Klor needed: observant and expectant, he alone recognized the telltale signs of a skirmish. His attention again shifted to Kerugarn; and again there was only a pointed stare, a demand for patience and trust.

A demand, this time, that clearly wanted the dragon to remember something.

Easing himself back into a submissive slouch he nodded to both drow. The claws vanished; the dagger withdrew into one sleeve.

The moment the weapons disappeared, the pain returned. There was another flash, more powerful than the first. Tyus lurched; Twi’zari staggered; Kerugarn cringed.

Autumn did all three, letting out something between a grunt and a moan. She dropped to one knee, gave a haggard cough, and then collapsed onto the throne room floor.

“Ye’ll all be unconscious by the time the hour ends.” Durir assured the others. He rounded on Klor and a handful of his other men, nodding towards the doors.

“Ye’ll watch them until that happens.” He instructed the Councilman. “And then ye’ll take them back to where ye found them.”

Dragon and drow alike were hauled to their feet, dragged out of the Council’s chambers. Two burly soldiers carried Autumn between them; but, until the moment the doors shut at their backs, they also had Durir’s full attention. Then the companions were cut off from the commander’s sorrow and their captors’ presence; and, there, they felt as alone as they had in seven days.

Twi’zari and Kerugarn didn’t make it back to their lavish cell. To the dismay of four guards the dragon collapsed on top of them; and subsequently (and with tremendous physical effort) was carried the rest of the way. Tyus’s sister didn’t make it much further; but, much lighter, she was heaved over one dwarf’s shoulder with minimal effort.

Isolated and weak, the assassin was roughly shoved into the room along with his limp companions. Then, with a dismissal gesture from Klor, the guards vanished and returned to the outside; and, with a heavy sigh, the youngest Councilman turned on the dying elf.

“Don’t use any of our names.” He instructed. “They’re all written on the stone. But ask what ye want, and I’ll do my best to answer.”

Tyus didn’t have any questions at first. He passed between the three unconscious bodies, checking each for a pulse and studying each for any signs of internal damage. His survey came up clean – until he came to Autumn.

“What’s happening to her?”

What seemed to be an infection had started just below her neck. The flesh seemed corrupted, twisted at a microscopic level so that it appeared gray and dead. As he watched the color spread – slowly but surely creeping up her throat and across towards her shoulders. It would take days to be sure; but sooner or later it would have enveloped all of her body.

“It’s the effect of the stone’s second enchantment.” Klor explained. “Ye and yer sister won’t notice it – yer skin is already that color. And yer friend, the dragon? His skin isn’t exactly visible. Don’t worry, though: that is harmless. The danger… is when it starts to go away.

“It’s a clock, ye see.” He went on. “It will spread until it touches yer toes and fingers; then it will go away and recede back to the point where ye see it now. At that point…”

“We die?”

The bearded head bobbed up and down in a solemn nod.

“And you went along with this?” Tyus demanded.

“No.” Klor assured him.

“But the Council and the King did?”

“No.” The dwarf said again. “We have two hearings for each ruling. If the first is unanimous, usually, it negates the need for a second.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Durir is the problem…” he sighed.

“What? A low ranking military officer commands more power than the monarchy? And why could he boss you around in the throne room?”

“Because he should be King…”

“He’s D–’s” Tyus caught himself.

“Is he Dimas’s brother? No – they aren’t related unless you go back at least a dozen generations.”

“So how does he have claim to the throne? How does he have you people around his finger?”

“Dwarven society isn’t like others – especially not yers, drow.” Klor explained. “Ye don’t just become leader through blood or killing yer predecessor. No: dwarves are about kinship, respect. If ye save the life of the current King, ye have the right to the title.

“But a King can’t go out and keep fighting. Dimas was ambushed on a mining expedition – it’s the only reason he was in danger in the first place. And when Durir was offered to have the same privilege? He turned it down.”

“But he’s still treated as King?”

“The uncrowned King, yes. And his influence was enough to sway the Council of the Twelve Beards to sentence you.”

The pain came again. It felt like Tyus’s brain was boiling, like his eyes were smoking and melting in their skulls. Unconsciousness was moments away; but, until then, his conscience could not be at rest.

“So what happens now?” he demanded, grabbing at the sleeve of the dwarf’s robes in an effort to stay awake. “What can we do to stay alive?”

“Ye can’t get rid of the stones.” Klor assured him. “Ye can’t spit them back up; and ye certainly shouldn’t try to cut them out. But I expected them to be a problem; and so I took precautions.”

“How?”

“Kerugarn didn’t just get the chance to play with dwarven forges for the fun of it. I got him out so he could learn how our magic works; and he might very well know how to make it… stop working. Of course I can’t tell you directly – Durir had Dimas forbid that with a royal order nearly as powerful as a Philosopher’s Stone. But indirect motives seem to be my specialty…”

“And your personal motives?”

“They are, again, indirect.” Klor said with a smile. “I, after all, find it could be useful to have drow in my debt. If ye don’t consider it a binding contract… then a friendly one. Durir loves war; I don’t. I’d like for the tunnels to be quiet for a bit; and I’d like ye to help.”

Tyus gasped and doubled over, trembling violently as another spasm wracked him. His vision began to fade; and the last sight he had of the dwarven city was that of a smiling, bearded face hunched over him.

“But in order to do that, Tyus Brek’enwrath, I need ye to survive. I hope ye do just that…”