Chasing the Lantern(83)

It was obvious to Fengel that the ruins were not built by Rastalak's people. The Draykin was short, but there was something else. The dimensions were too strange, the archways too tall, the stairs too deep. Bas-relief decorations could be half made out, and though weathered and shrouded by the dark, the beings they depicted were unlike any other people he had ever seen or heard of. For all its obvious inhumanity, Rastalak was closer to man that whatever odd race were responsible for the construction of these monuments. He wondered what their relation was, these builders and the Draykin.

The answer came quite unexpectedly.

During their travel the sky had darkened to blackest night; now it lightened again into the rosy glow of pre-dawn. As they walked the jungle became lighter and more sparse, both easier to see and traverse. Though they'd walked all night, Fengel was filled with a kind of restless energy. The gem, the Lantern, was nearby. Soon it would be his.

The underbrush thinned. Fengel moved across flat, warm ground after their guide, his trousers soaked by sweat and condensation. Up ahead Rastalak stopped at a thick banyan tree, beyond which Fengel didn't see any others, or any other growth, for that matter.

Fengel caught up to their guide. He climbed up on a high root beside the Draykin. "What is it?" he asked. "Why have we stopped?"

Rastalak was staring out past the tree. Fengel followed his gaze and his jaw dropped.

There were no trees and no undergrowth, because there was nowhere for it to grow. The earth abruptly gave way to a cliff wall that dropped down three hundred feet to a valley floor. The valley was a mile wide and roughly two miles long, encompassed on all sides by sheer stony cliffs.

The valley was not empty. Stair-stepped pyramids, low, wide houses, and towers constructed in strange unreal whorls filled the space, separated by broad thoroughfares of paving stones. The tips of the tallest buildings towered hundreds of feet above the ground, just below the lip of the chasm, higher than any building Fengel had ever seen, even those back in the old cities of the Western Continent. The stonework of each structure was a soft gold in color, shot through here and there with silvery lines that seemed to almost shine. Flying lizards and the eel-like scryn swooped from niches in the upper structures to fight, hunt, and play.

It was the city they'd seen the evening before from the Dawnhawk. Fengel felt a moment's incredulity. They'd walked all night but barely covered a few miles.

"Behold," said Rastalak with reverence. "Yrinium. Ancient seat of the Great Masters."

"The Voorn," said Fengel in realization. "These are Voornish ruins. That's who made all this." Artifacts and ruins from the old race were found occasionally back on Edrus, bits and pieces of the civilization that had come before those of man. But nothing like the city down below. He was possibly the first living man to gaze upon this place. I wish Natasha could see this. Immediately, he quashed the errant thought.

"Voornehai," nodded Rastalak. "The Great—"

Their guide broke off. It twisted its head suddenly, as if hearing a sound. It looked back the way they'd came and hissed. Fengel turned, hand automatically to his saber. The rest of the crew were crawling along, obviously exhausted. Henry Smalls led their way toward him, Gunny Lome at the rear. Fengel spied something past her, hiding in the bushes only a dozen paces at her back. A face, reptilian and long-muzzled. Just like Rastalak.

Their Draykin guide hissed something in its own tongue. Fengel didn't understand, but the meaning was clear. "Alarm!" he cried. "Sarah, at your back!"

Gunny Lome was a warrior born. She whirled, drawing her cutlass as she did so. The hiding Draykin leapt from the bushes, a spear upraised and ready to throw. Sarah took in the threat and squared herself, ready to dive aside.

A spear flew through the air. It caught Henry Smalls in the back and he went down, eyes wide, still trying to understand the danger. Fengel shouted in denial and drew his blade.

Draykin appeared, seeming to rise out of the very earth itself. There were dozens of the short reptiles. They hissed and screamed, and then the battle was on.





Chapter Eighteen



I really hate this ship.

The Copper Queen lumbered through the air like a pregnant cow. It swayed, not always with the movement of the wind. The light-air cells were a third depleted and the others rolled around loosely within the gasbag frame. As if that weren't enough, the support struts and cables stringing the ship itself to the 'bag were on the verge of giving way. Several had already torn and been rapidly replaced.

Mordecai had just woken for his shift, yet still felt exhausted. The last eighteen hours had almost killed him. He felt like murdering someone in turn for having had to live through them. First had been the repair of the Queen, as mishap after mishap revealed the little life left in the craft. Then they'd returned to the wreck of the Albatross to load aboard the lingering treasure, supplies, light-air canisters, and anything that would burn for fuel. After that, Mordecai would have been glad to put the whole sorry adventure behind them, to return to Haventown if they could, or simply to Breachtown where they could scuttle the ship and make their way home via smuggler's routes.