Dolgan again lost the trail in the last cavern, finding it only when he spied the ledge above where the tracks ended. He had difficulty climbing to it, but when he did, he saw the blackened spot where the boy had snuffed out his torch. Here Tomas must have rested. Dolgan looked around the empty cavern. The air did not move this deep below the mountains. Even the dwarf, who was used to such things, found this an unnerving place. He looked down at the black mark on the ledge. But how long did Tomas stay, and where did he go?
Dolgan saw the hole in the wall and, since no tracks led away from the ledge, decided that was the way Tomas must have gone. He climbed through and followed the passage until it came to a larger one, heading downward, into the bowels of the mountain.
Dolgan followed what seemed to be a group of tracks, as if a band of men had come this way. Tomas’s tracks were mixed in, and he was worried, for the boy could have been along this way before or after the others, or could have been with them. If the boy was held prisoner by someone, then Dolgan knew every moment was critical.
The tunnel wound downward and soon changed into a hall fashioned from great stone blocks fitted closely together and polished smooth. In all his years he had never seen its like. The passage leveled out, and Dolgan walked along quietly. The tracks had vanished, for the stone was hard and free of dust. High overhead, Dolgan could make out the first of several crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling by chains. They could be lowered by means of a pulley, so the candles might be lit. The sound of his boots echoed hollowly off the high ceiling.
At the far end of the passage he spied large doors, fashioned from wood, with bands of iron and a great lock. They were ajar, and light could be seen coming through.
Without a sound, Dolgan crept close to the doors and peered in. He gaped at what he saw, his shield and ax coming up instinctively.
Sitting on a pile of gold coins, and gems the size of a man’s fist, was Tomas, eating what looked to be a fish. Opposite him crouched a figure that caused Dolgan to doubt his eyes.
A head the size of a small wagon rested on the floor. Shield-size scales of a deep golden color covered it, and the long, supple neck led back to a huge body extending into the gloom of the giant hall. Enormous wings were folded across its back, their drooping tips touching the floor. Two pointed ears sat atop its head, separated by a delicate-looking crest, flecked with silver. Its long muzzle was set in a wolflike grin, showing fangs as long as broadswords, and a long forked tongue flicked out for a moment.
Dolgan fought down the overwhelming and rare urge to run, for Tomas was sitting, and to all appearances sharing a meal, with the dwarven folk’s most feared hereditary enemy: a great dragon. He stepped forward, and his boots clacked on the stone floor.
Tomas turned at the sound, and the dragon’s great head came up. Giant ruby eyes regarded the small intruder Tomas jumped to his feet, an expression of joy upon his face. “Dolgan!” He scrambled down from the pile of wealth and rushed to the dwarf.
The dragon’s voice rumbled through the great hall, echoing like thunder through a valley. “Welcome, dwarf. Thy friend hath told me that thou wouldst not forsake him.”
Tomas stood before the dwarf, asking a dozen questions, while Dolgan’s senses reeled. Behind the boy, the Prince of all dragons sat quietlv observing the exchange, and the dwarf was having trouble maintaining the equanimity that was normally his. Making little sense of Tomas’s questions, Dolgan gently pushed him to one side to better see the dragon. “I came alone,” he said softly to the boy “The others were loath to leave the search to me, but they had to press on, so vital was the mission.”
Tomas said, “I understand.”
“What manner of wizardry is this?” asked Dolgan softly.
The dragon chuckled, and the room rumbled with the sound. “Come into my home, dwarf, and I will tell thee.” The great dragon’s head returned to the floor, his eyes still resting above Dolgan’s head. The dwarf approached slowly, shield and ax unconsciously at the ready. The dragon laughed, a deep, echoing sound, like water cascading down a canyon “Stay thy hand, small warrior, I’ll not harm thee or thy friend.”
Dolgan let his shield down and hung his ax on his belt. He looked around and saw that they were standing in a vast hall, fashioned out of the living rock of the mountain. On all its walls could be seen large tapestries and banners, faded and torn; something about their look set Dolgan’s teeth on edge, for they were as alien as they were ancient—no creature he knew of, human, elf, or goblin fashioned those pennants. More of the giant crystal chandeliers hung from timbers across the ceiling. At the far end of the hall, a throne could be seen on a dais, and long tables with chairs for many diners stood before it Upon the tables were flagons of crystal and plates of gold. And all was covered with the dust of ages.