The Dragon God Read online

  “Stop all your blabbing, dammit!” the dwarf snapped.

  The others understood by his outburst that the entity must have contacted Dulgin alone, and they were not surprised at their gruff friend’s reaction. He was not accustomed to others’ thoughts in his mind.

  They waited at the foot of the long-fanning, smooth marbled steps, which formed a wide semi-circle leading to the ice carved throne. The backrest towered several feet high, and Dwarvish runes lavished the sides of the armrests, which resembled mighty war hammers. Behind the throne there hung a tapestry from floor to ceiling, depicting the image of the frost dwarf king. He had blue skin, matching the color of the ice, a white icicle beard, and wore brilliant full-plate armor. The image of the King’s eyes had been purposely burnt out, the only apparent damage to the stitched masterpiece.

  Dulgin, not taking his eyes off of the entity on the royal seat, stepped toward the figure. His friends followed, and soon they looked upon a dwarf encapsulated by a layer of clear ice, his burly arms with bracers of gold pinned to the chair. His eyes were a mottled white, locked into an endless stare straight ahead.

  The deep voice resonated, this time in the common language, within each of their minds, “You must help my kingdom.”

  “You are—” Bridazak gasped.

  “I am Morthkin, King of the frost dwarves, Ruler of Te Sond, Protector of Guul-Fen, and harborer of all those who take refuge in my domain.”

  Dulgin asked, “What happened here?”

  “The demon, Shiell-Zonn, entombed me and opened the doors of the goblin under-dwellers to sack Te Sond. I have been trapped here for over a century, calling in the dark, waiting for someone to hear my cry. In order for this curse to be broken, you must retrieve the Sky Diamond, which must be in the possession of a worthy dwarf.”

  Dulgin, accepting this mission without question, lowered his voice, narrowed his eyes, and asked, “Where is this Sky Diamond?”

  “Below us, in the tunnels of Gock-Turnin.”

  “Gock-Turnin?” He reeled back in surprise. “That scum!” Dulgin spit on the ground in disgust.

  The others did not understand the name or the meaning behind it. Bridazak asked, “Who is this Gock?”

  Dulgin replied, “He is the Goblin King, nemesis to all dwarves.”

  “Yes, and he beseeched the demon, Shiell-Zonn, to infiltrate my kingdom, ensnare my physical body, and enslave my people.”

  Spilf asked with trepidation, “Did you, sir, have any ordakians under your care?”

  “All races of peace are allowed in my domain.”

  “I’m looking for my family. They might have come here for refuge. A small village east of here was taken over by humans and a group of daks fled this way.”

  “We had a small community of Ordakiankind within Te Sond. They came from several locations, perhaps the one you speak of, but I do not have intimate knowledge of their names.”

  Spilf exhaled in relief, again feeling his hopes and doubts seem to battle within his heart. Even though he felt closer now than ever before, he was not certain if they were still alive. “Wait,” he thought to himself. “God told me they were still alive.” Spilf turned to his friends and said aloud, “They are here. I know it.”

  “There is a secret door behind the tapestry. Only dwarfkin can open it. Head through my private chamber and take the stairway down. It will take you to the lower levels, where you will find the evil goblins of Gock-Turnin. They are using the Sky Diamond to enslave the people, forcing them to make their tunnels. The curse will end once it is in your hands.”

  “Well met, King Morthkin. We will free you,” Bridazak said.

  “My name is Dulgin Hammergold, and my brother is El’Korr, King of the Remnant. He will be coming with a small army in the near future.”

  “Free me, Dulgin of the Hammergold clan, so I can prepare for his arrival as a true King. He will see the hospitality he so deserves.”

  Abawken called, “Let us go.”

  The heroes began to follow until King Morthkin stopped them, “You are being tracked.”

  Bridazak stepped back, “By whom?”

  Abawken and Dulgin exchanged glances. The human could no longer keep the truth about his assassin hidden from his companions, “Her name is Devana.”

  Spilf coughed, “Devana? The assassin, Devana? That Devana?”

  “Yes, it is her.”

  The mind-link of the frost dwarf ruler deepened, “No. It is King Manasseh.”

  Bridazak snapped, “What did you say? King Manasseh? That is impossible, he was killed over two moon cycles ago.”

  “Then he has returned from the grave. I can hear his caustic mind relentlessly spewing his hatred.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “He comes for vengeance; he comes for someone named Bridazak.”

  The heroes were not prepared for King Morthkin’s words. This pivotal information verified that it was, in fact, the fallen Manasseh, back from the dead.

  “It is me he is looking for. Where is he now?” Bridazak asked.

  “He entered the lower chambers of my domain. Lift the curse and I will help you.”

  Abawken called from the tapestry, “C’mon, Master Bridazak!”

  He held the drapery away from the wall as his friends, one by one, entered behind it to the secret door. Spilf, with the help of Lester and Ross, discovered the elusive entrance and pointed it out to the others. The dak studied a small stone nestled in the wall. He slowly moved it aside and found it covered an imprint of a hand. Dulgin didn’t wait for instructions, and slapped his palm in place. With a loud grinding sound, the mighty ice wall cracked into the formation of an entrance and the foot depth of wall pushed in and then shuffled to the left.

  A magical chandelier dangled from the ceiling by one immense iced stalactite, giving off a dusky orange aura from the hundreds of perfectly shaped icicles of various lengths hanging from the circular frame. Decorative shields of all sizes and shapes adorned the walls like trophies. A frosty glass case held an array of drinking mugs, chalices, and horns.

  The heroes slowed their pace as they entered in awe. Mammoth sized furs of numerous species littered the floor of the fifty-foot chamber.

  Dulgin gasped and let out two distinct, high pitched yelps. His comrades’ eyes looked the direction he was staring, and locked on the brilliant Dwarven full-plate armor set on display upon a wood mannequin. Its adamantine metal gleamed like a beacon for any lost dwarf looking for protection. Like an entranced dwarf gazing upon a mound of gold, he took his fateful steps closer and closer.

  “Finally, Dulgin. Now you can replace that ugly armor of yours,” Spilf called out.

  The Dwarf’s plate mail had been an eye-sore for years, and with each combat encounter, it became worse. It was more of a liability for those in the vicinity with its sharp rusty protrusions of peeled metal from the open gashes, slashes and holes punctured into it. Bridazak, Spilf, and Abawken watched together as their burly friend was almost upon the much needed new suit of armor. They looked forward to the forthcoming improved Dulgin Hammergold.

  Dulgin began to stretch out his arms and clopped along faster with each step as his stiffened legs mechanically moved toward the item. The faces of his adventuring comrades suddenly shifted, however, when he stumbled right past the magical armor and locked his muscled arms around the keg just beyond. He positioned himself to take a mouthful of the mythical substance that had diminished over the centuries within the human communities that flourished across Ruauck-El—his beloved dwarven ale. He released the corked bottom and was rewarded with the high alcohol content filling his mouth, sloshing over the sides, dribbling through his red-beard, and cascading down the front of his dented armor.

  “Unbelievable,” said Spilf.

  “Yep,” Bridazak groaned.

  Abawken stepped forward. “Come on, we will need Master Dulgin’s senses about him for what lies ahead of us.”

  They hurried to Dulgin’s side and pushed the cork back
into the keg, cutting off the dwarf’s freely streaming ale. Dulgin stood and pulled forth his waterskin, where he proceeded to squeeze the fresh water from the container, emptying it completely. The others folded their arms across their chests and waited as Dulgin filled his waterskin with the alcohol. When he finished, he smiled and lifted his red bushy eyebrows in victory.

  “Are you ready?” Bridazak spryly asked.

  “Do any of you want your waterskin filled?”

  “We prefer our water,” Spilf retorted.

  “Fine, suit yer self. Let’s go,” Dulgin turned to the cask of ale, gave it a hearty pat and said, “I will be back for you later.”

  “What about the armor, Master Dulgin?”

  “What about it? It’s ugly. Something my brother would wear, not me. C’mon, we have your family to rescue and King Manasseh to deal with, again.”

  The band of heroes made their way down the circular stairway, noticing the ambient temperature becoming warmer the lower they descended. The chrysalis-like finish lessened and the smoothly worked stone turned rough, raw, and jagged. The pure, cold air gradually shifted to a grimy and humid draft, with the dust of chipped stone and a sulfurous odor assailing their nostrils.

  “Well, at least we are going down this time,” Spilf gripped Abawken’s backpack to keep from falling with dizziness, not used to the excessive elevations rise and falls they had recently travelled.

  “Yer heavy breathing will alert anyone we’re coming, that’s for sure,” Dulgin retorted.

  Bridazak suddenly stopped. Spilf said, “Oh good, a break.”

  “No, listen.”

  They all did as instructed. Spilf focused his labored breaths and cocked his head slightly to make out what the sound was, but deep down he was thankful for the rest as he leaned against the wall. Distant clanking of metal into rock echoed up the stairway.

  “Someone is doing a bit of mining,” Dulgin said. “C’mon, lets have a looksee.”

  Once they reached the bottom, Dulgin, using his natural ability to see through the darkness, led the way. The passages, although not completely dark, were difficult enough that the others could not navigate effectively without bumping into a corner of a wall or possibly stepping into an open chasm in the floor.

  The dwarven tunnels, engineered long ago, were well structured and interconnected, lacing the lower levels to harbor and convey the many dwarven brethren, though all the passageways were now creepily empty. Strong, reinforced wooden doors with metal banding were held open by pitons. They cautiously walked further through the halls until finally finding a strange opening that did not match the dwarven engineering. The sound of hammers striking rock echoed strongly. An abhorrent odor assaulted them from the visible break in the wall along with a strange red aura casting an eerie glow.

  “That is rank,” Spilf said.

  “Goblin. A smell every dwarf is warned about at an early age.”

  “We have encountered this race above ground, but never smelled anything like this before,” Bridazak stated.

  “Gock-Turnin and his foul breed are the underdwellers of the goblins. They give off a fine mixture of feces, sweat, and death, something us dwarves like to call fengle.”

  “Is there anything we should be aware of when we encounter them, Master Dulgin?”

  “Yeah, don’t let them breathe on you. I have seen them put down the mightiest of dwarves with that alone. Other than that, they bleed, and they die. We will find small groupings patrolling their tunnels, and one is required to escape to alert the horde while the others keep us occupied. Their strength is in their numbers and we cannot afford to alert the horde. Bridazak and Spilf will focus on the goffen, the runner, while Abawken and I will take the others. Don’t worry about the noise as they don’t hear well, but their sight is uncanny.”

  “What about their sense of smell?” Bridazak asked.

  “Bah, with that bad breath of theirs they ain’t be smellin nothin but their arses.”

  They looked down the crumbly-edged passage. Floor pedestaled braziers contained heated stones that rested inside the cast iron, giving a crimson glow. A magical source of lighting produced eerie shadows, and gave the sense of lava flowing nearby. The smell intensified, and the ordakians and human had to cover their noses with their hands at times. A maze of chaotic mining tunnels engulfed them as they slinked beyond the frost dwarf lair. Precision was not a necessity for the goblins. These passages had been developed in haste and with poor care. In some cases rudimentary beams appeared to be more decoration rather than structurally sound. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the passageways—more like aimless carvings in the earth, resembling the paths made by worms in search of food. When they came to another intersection of the woven tunnel, the sharp sounds of metal on hardened rock pierced more predominantly. Dulgin peered around the corner first, and then quickly retreated with his back against the wall, and the others, hastily following his lead, did the same.

  He whispered, “Mining slaves and a group of rovers passing by. Get ready.”

  The heroes could barely make out the trodding footsteps of the goblinoid party, except to note that the barefoot creatures of the underground realm marched right by them, apparently not concerned with their passageway in the slightest. The range of rusty red to dull green skin was the only difference to discern one from the next. Their eyes were a milky-white, loose skin sagged on their cheeks, no discernible outer ears, but instead sunken clefts where ears would have been, and misshaped bald heads rounded out the four-foot-tall foul race. A slender goblin, surrounded by his sword and spear-wielding kin, appeared jittery and held no weapon.

  The heroes exhaled, relieved their first encounter would not be a fight. Dulgin waved them to follow. They turned the corner and walked only a few paces before discovering the source of the mining noises. A few frost dwarves slogged away at the tunnel wall with archaic picks, along with two humans, and an ordakian. Each miner focused on their task and mechanically swung away, as if in a trance. Spilf rushed to the dak and spun him around face to face. The frail male’s face was blackened with the soot of mining, hair greasy and matted, and his eyes were a reflective purple.

  “We are here to save you,” Spilf said, but the expressionless face wanted to continue on with the meaningless job set before him. Spilf let him go and the ordakian carried on as if no interruption had occurred. Abawken and Dulgin approached the other slaves, who also had the same eye coloration.

  “They are spellbound,” Abawken announced.

  “It must be the power of this Shiell-Zonn demon and the Sky Diamond,” Bridazak surmised.

  Suddenly, a different squad of goblins shuffled into the corridor further ahead of them, and instantly spotted the adventurers. A loud screech echoed from the reddish-green band as they charged. The weaker member of the clan sprinted back the way it came.

  Dulgin shouted, “Get the goffen!”

  Bridazak cried, “The what?”

  “The runner, get the runner!”

  Bridazak, his bow at the ready, quickly drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it, and let it fly. The cold steel point pierced through the left calf of the fleeing goffen. Immediately, the runner’s protectors charged the heroes, as the wounded goblin hobbled from sight to alert another group, working to create a chain reaction that would rally the entire horde. The clank of steel on steel echoed in the tunnels as Abawken and Dulgin, weapons in hand, engaged the six foul creatures. The dark dwellers swung recklessly, with the ferocity of madmen, while the fighter from Zoar had an elegance and skill unmatched by any in this region. The dwarf angrily met the group head on with overpowering strength behind every swing, shattering the first goblin’s spear and then disemboweling the next, spilling its guts on the ground.

  To bypass the melee, Spilf and Bridazak scooted along the wall, making it to the other side and entered a new tunnel. They followed a trail of blood that guided them through the twisting passage and soon came upon the wounded goblin, crawling and clawing away
. His labored breathing created a reverberating whine. Bridazak readied another arrow, but Spilf unsheathed his dagger, and turned the goffen over to face him, straddling him to keep him pinned.

  The goblin, in its scratchy voice and broken common language, threatened, “Horde come. Horde kill.”

  “What are you doing with all of these slaves?” Spilf demanded, grabbing the leather strap across its chest and shoulder, and lifting him up to his face to intimidate him. Spilf was suddenly overcome by the smell and stumbled away. The creature pulled out a hidden knife, and shakily aimed it at Spilf, but an arrow slammed into its abdomen and the creature gurgled its final breath.

  Dulgin and Abawken finished off the remaining goblins and then trotted down the tunnelway to find Bridazak and Spilf.

  Dulgin chuckled, “Looks like you found Fengle Breath.”

  Spilf looked at him as he gagged. He leaned against the rock wall.

  Dulgin said, “Just smell your pit. It will settle your stomach.”

  Spilf didn’t argue and did as instructed, taking big whiffs of his sweaty armpit, then he relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. Bridazak was by his side.

  “I wasn’t kidding about that smell.”

  They dragged the goffen corpse back to the group where Abawken and Dulgin had easily finished off the small band. Spilf used powdered rock dust to cover the blood trail and caught the dwarf eyeing him. Spilf said, “Learned this trick in my early days as a thief covering up a killing in Baron’s Hall.”

  Dulgin nodded, “Nice trick.”

  The others carried the dead enemies back into the dwarven keep and piled them inside one of the many barren rooms. They had their first encounter of roving goblins and the goffen and felt ready to move deeper into Gock-Turnin’s lair.

  Bridazak and Spilf made their way ahead of Dulgin and Abawken, hiding in shadows cast by the glowing braziers stationed throughout, and then informing the others to follow once it was clear. The maze of tunnels continued without end. They came upon hundreds of mindless slaves hacking away at the walls. They stopped several times, but discovered it was nearly impossible to discern if Spilf’s parents were amongst the many ordakians, because of the heavy layers of dirt covering their faces. Some of the entranced souls had died and lay along the passage; the smell of death intermingled with the goblin stench.