Egil turned to Arin. “You know, if Delon is right and we do get a chance to negotiate with the Dragon before he kills us, this just might work.”
“Dost thou think the Dragon will strike such a bargain and permit us access to the Dragonstone?”
Ferret interjected, “Well, we can’t tell him that we are going after the Dragonstone, now can we? Instead we’ll say we are after the chest…tell him that it is an old heirloom or some such.”
Burel cleared his throat. “Yes, but Dara Arin has a point: will the Dragon agree to such a bargain?”
“Look,” said Delon, “if you could make love but once every three thousand years, wouldn’t you seize the chance? Especially if there are no other Dragons about to dispute your claim to the lady in question?”
Burel glanced at Aiko, and for some reason she blushed, though she did not lower her eyes.
“Dost thou think the Kraken will be in season?” asked Arin.
“Perhaps so. Perhaps not,” replied Delon. “Yet whether she is in season or is unwillingly ravished by the Drake is of no moment, just as long as we get the stone.”
Of a sudden, tears sprang to Ferret’s eyes.
“Oh, luv, that was thoughtless of me,” said Delon, taking her hand and kissing it gently.
With the heel of her free hand, Ferret wiped the tears away. “It’s all right, Delon. I understand what you mean.”
Egil looked about the table. “Given that the Drake accepts our offer, we will need to divide: some to rappel down the cliff, others to go to the pool and get the chest.”
Delon nodded, then smiled. “And one to be Kraken bait. And since it’s my plan, I’ll do the honors.”
Arin shook her head. “Nay, Delon, thou must deal with the cliff, thou and Aiko and Burel, for only ye three have the skills to rappel down a thousand sheer feet of stone and then climb back up once the deed is done. Egil and Ferai and I will claim the chest, Ferai to free it from its chains, and Egil to bear it. I will be the lure.”
The table exploded in argument…
…But in the end, Arin’s scheme prevailed.
CHAPTER 68
Walk straight into a Dragon’s lair? Are you all insane?” His white eye glaring, Alos stared ’round the circle, starting with Delon and ending with him as well. “He’ll just snap us up as if we were a half dozen and one sweetmeats.”
“Nevertheless, Alos, old man, that’s what we intend to do,” replied Delon, the bard at the tiller, Castilla over the horizon behind, the coast of Vancha to starboard.
Once again Alos had awakened to find that he was at sea, and when he’d stumbled topside, he’d found his companions sitting adeck in the dawn, the ship well on her way.
And then Delon had told him the gist of the ludicrous plan he had hatched.
“It’s stupid, I tell you. Stupid.” Alos turned to Arin in silent appeal. “Look, even if he agrees to Delon’s insane plan—lets us have the silver chest in return for luring the Kraken out—what makes you think the Dragon’ll keep his word?”
“They kept their sworn word to the Mages of Black Mountain,” said Delon.
“Yes, but those were Mages, and who wouldn’t keep a sworn word to a Mage? But we are just common folk. I mean, the Dragon could swear an oath to us, could get what he wants, and then kill us all. Then where would we be? Dead, that’s where. No chest, no Dragonstone, just dead. It’s insane, I tell you, insane.”
“’Tis all we have, Alos,” she said. “Nought else would seem to bear even the slim chance this plan offers.”
“Slim chance?” groaned Alos. “No chance, you mean.”
Aiko ground her teeth and moved forward and began coiling a line.
“Look, Alos,” said Egil, “with fair winds and waves, we have three months, give or take two weeks, before we come to Dragons’ Roost. If you hatch a better plan, we’ll be most glad to hear it. Until then, though, Delon’s scheme seems to be the best at our beck.”
Again Alos groaned. Then he looked at the sails and said, “Here, Delon, give me the tiller and trim up those sails, for if you are bound on committing a quick suicide, I’ll help you get there, but I won’t…won’t”—a look of confusion spread over the old man’s face, and words jerked out of him as if compelled—“unlike before, I’ll not desert my shipmates in their time of need.”
* * *
A week later, in driving rain, the Brise cleared the Straits of Kistan and pitched into the heaving waters of the Weston Ocean. All that day she drove through the rolling waves, rounding the shoulder of Vancha. The very next day Egil set a northwesterly course for the western reach of Gelen, and onward they fared.
Every day they reviewed their plan and tried to account for all events, yet much would depend upon the Dragon, and who can predict the whims of such a creature?
And every night, in the depths of the darkness, Aiko sensed distant peril, yet they could find nought to explain the warnings of the red tiger between her breasts: neither ship on the ocean nor creature of the sea did they espy under the sun or moon, and none saw the dark winged thing sliding across the stars afar.
* * *
“Where will we land, Egil?”
Egil looked up from the chart he had drawn. Then he pointed: “Here is Dragons’ Roost at the end of the Gronfangs, where they plunge into the sea. And here churns the Great Maelstrom, between Dragons’ Roost on the east and the Seabanes to the west. Here on the southerly approach to Dragons’ Roost lies the realm of Gron, a foul land full of Rutcha and such, ruled by a dark Wizard in an iron tower, or so it is said. Here on the north and eastern flanks are the Steppes of Jord, a domain of grass and horses.”
“Yes, but, where will we land?” repeated Ferret.
“Not too near the Great Maelstrom, I hope,” said Delon. “From what I hear, I wouldn’t want to get sucked into that thing.”
Alos, at the tiller, shuddered and groaned, but otherwise said nothing.
Again Egil’s finger stabbed to the parchment. “Rumor has it that there are perhaps two ways up the mountain to the ledge: one starting in Gron, said to be the easiest to manage; the other beginning in Jord, a more difficult climb, I am told.”
Aiko looked up from the map and into Egil’s good eye. “Rumor? Is there no accurate description?”
Egil shook his head. “None I know of. Those who have sailed closer than I report such things.”
“Has anyone climbed either route?” rumbled Burel.
“If any did,” replied Egil, “none has returned to tell the tale.”
Alos moaned and looked out to sea, his gaze filling with tears, and he muttered, “Snap us up like sweetmeats all.”
“Can we bring the ship nigh enough to see for ourselves?” asked Arin, studying the map.
“The Maelstrom has a long reach, love,” replied Egil.
“Even so, can we sail ‘tween here and here?” Arin pointed to the channel between the closest two of the Seabane Islands.
Egil turned to Alos. “What do you think, Alos?”
The oldster shuddered, then said in a flat tone, “Shipmates, my shipmates.” Egil spread the map before the oldster. Alos wiped the tears from his good eye and stared at the drawing, his breath coming in short gasps. Finally he said, “Perhaps…but it will be too perilous, I tell you. I mean, there’s a Dragon on the ledge above who can swoop down and swallow us whole, and there’s Krakens in these waters who can rise up from out of the depths and drag us under and swallow us whole. And then there’s the Great Maelstrom, and if it catches us, ship and all it will swallow us whole.”
Arin sighed and looked at the oldster. “If we cannot sail nigh to see for ourselves and must trust to rumor, of the two approaches Egil has named I favor the Jordian side, for a crossing of Gron, no matter how brief, is perilous.”
Arin looked up and ’round, receiving nods from all but Alos, who instead peered out to sea, tears again running down his face.
* * *
They spent three rainy days in the West Gelen port o
f Anster, and all the time they were there, Alos was deep in his cups, the oldster trying to drown his fear in drink. Aiko had given up on the task of keeping him sober for, after all, he had safely guided them into and out of Serpent Cove and, other than helming the ship to Jord, there was no part for him to play in the retrieval of the Dragonstone from the Kraken Pool, hence his role in the venture was done. And so she ignored the fact that he was falling-down drunk all the time they were aland, though she was more than fed up with his intemperate blubberings of the doom lying ahead.
On the second night they were in Anster, or rather just before dawn of the third day, as lightning strode across the sky Egil was plagued by a particularly hideous dream, reliving the horror of Miki’s face being flayed, the skin being ripped away, the tiny muscles underneath being exposed in wet redness, each muscle then being plucked like individual strings on a grisly, bloody harp, and Miki screaming and screaming and screaming.
Arin held Egil while he wept.
* * *
Egil looked up from his plate. “What?”
“I just said, Egil, isn’t it dead yet?” repeated Delon.
Egil looked back down. The rasher of bacon was hacked and chopped and torn, as if attacked by a savage beast. Egil slammed his knife to the table and hissed through gritted teeth. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”
“Who?”
“Ordrune. When this is over, I’m going back to Serpent Cove and kill him.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Burel. “He must pay for my father.”
“And my men,” added Egil.
“We will need to gather a force,” said Aiko. “Enough to throw down his walls or to set siege if necessary.”
“And a Mage or two to counter his castings,” added Arin.
“That will cost,” said Ferret, “yet there should be enough treasure within his walls to pay for all and leave much for us.”
“Well then, I take it we know what we will do once this is finished,” said Delon. Then he turned to Egil. “But tell me, my friend, why this sudden rage?”
Egil shook his head. “Oh, no, Delon. This rage is not sudden at all, but was forty hideous days in the making and has been tempered for years in the fires of wrath.”
“Yes, yes, but why now, this morning?” He looked at Arin to see grief and compassion in her eyes. Enlightenment dawned and he turned back to Egil. “Oh. Another dream, eh? Particularly bad, I take it.”
Egil took a deep breath. “Particularly. And I am cursed to relive his monstrous depravities each night.”
Burel glanced at Arin and said, “Cannot the Mages at Rwn lift such a curse? If so, why not go there now? According to Egil’s charts, the isle is but a week or so away—north and west of here.”
Before Arin could reply, Egil said, “No, Burel. Let us first get the Dragonstone and then sail to Rwn. If they can lift the curse, that is the time to try. We’ve been on this mission for nearly a year—”
“Nearly two,” interjected Aiko.
Egil looked at her, then nodded. “Yes. It’s been nearly two years since Arin had her vision.”
“Two years in July,” murmured Arin.
“In July it will be a full year for me,” said Egil, then added, “and for Alos. —Regardless, my thinking is that we know not when the doom is set to fall, and the sooner we can get the stone into safe hands, the better for all. After we deliver it to the Mages at the college on Rwn, then and only then should we see if they can lift this hideous curse from my nightly dreams. But whether they can or cannot, I’m going after Ordrune.”
“And I will go with you,” said Burel, raising his cup to Egil.
And so did they all, all but Alos, who was yet passed out in his room above.
* * *
At mid of night on the fourth day after leaving the port of Anster, Arin and her companions stepped out the Elven rite of the vernal equinox, for it was the twenty-first of March— Springday.
On the twenty-third they changed course from a northerly run to head north-northeastward, and late in the day of the twenty-fifth they crossed into the icy waters of the Northern Sea, the Brise bound for the wide channel ‘tween Thol and Leut.
On April the sixth they came to the marge of the Boreal Sea, and beneath a waxing three-quarter moon they sailed into the broad harbor of Ogan, the port situated on the Long Coast of Thol.
* * *
“We’ll sail along the shores of Thol and the Jillians and Rian, for it is April, the most unruly of months, and the Boreal’s quite fickle this time of year. Should we need shelter from her sudden storms, land will be nearby.”
“Well and good, Egil,” said Ferret, “but tell me, how many days until Jord?”
Egil looked down at his charts. “Depending on the wind and waves, Ferai, a month, more or less.”
“And Dragons’ Roost?” asked Aiko.
“Within a day, the same,” replied Egil, “for I plan on mooring in Hafen, some thirty, forty miles past. It’s the closest port to our goal.”
“And that’s where we get the horses and cattle?” asked Delon.
Egil nodded.
Alos quaffed the last of his ale and called for another flagon. “Look. Listen. Um.” He peered into his empty jack as if seeking his lost train of thought. Then he raised his good eye to Egil. “Do, do, do you truly believe…um…that the Dragon will prefer cattle to us?”
Egil shrugged, but Ferret said, “’Tis a tribute we bring to him, Alos. Surely the Dragon will give us a hearing when he sees we bear a gift.”
Alos shook his head, and his tongue was thick and slurred. “You think to take him a dinner, but I think we’ll be the dinner instead.” A sob welled up from within the oldster, momentarily stifled by the arrival of his flagon.
* * *
On the eighth day of April, in a light sleet, they set sail from Ogan, heading northeast, heading for the realm of Jord.
They followed the Long Coast of Thol for days, long days and long nights of unremitting sleet and rain and snow, for spring comes late to the bounds of the Boreal Sea. As they approached the waters off the Jillian Tors, the sun finally broke through the overcast, and they sailed for a week in fair weather, coming to the shores of Rian in the last of the April days. Past Rian they sailed, past the end of the Rigga Mountains, and along the marge of Gron, a fog-laden land of cold mists. Here Egil angled outward into the Boreal, aiming the Brise for the western-most isle of the Seabanes.
And still during the tail of each and every day, Egil was visited by cursed dreams, and in the mid of each and every night, Aiko sensed peril somewhere lurking.
As they rounded the crags of the Seabanes, to the east and low on the horizon jutted up their ultimate goal—Dragons’ Roost—its crest crowned with white snow and glittering ice, the peak winter gripped year ’round. Yet Egil did not aim for this mountain, but swung slightly larboard instead, bearing for the port of Hafen in Jord. Even so, the mountain grew taller as easterly and north they fared, and they could not seem to take their eyes from that final crest in the arc of the Gronfangs, the chain itself curving away to be lost in the cold mists to the south. Their closest approach came just ere mid of night, a full moon shining down from above, the white pinnacle glittering silver in its light. But onward they sailed northeasterly, leaving the mountain behind.
* * *
Just before dawn on the ninth of May, six hundred seventy-eight days after Arin had had her vision, they haled into the port of Hafen and made fast to the docks.
As the sun rose they looked south to see their white-capped goal lying but forty miles away—forty miles to Dragons’ Roost, forty miles to the Kraken Pool, forty miles to the Dragonstone, forty miles to doom.
CHAPTER 69
[Aye. They do be a path leadin’ up,”] said the hostlekeep, eyeing the strange company before him, [but a man’d ha’e t’ be a bluidy fool t’ climb them dreaded steeps.”]
Egil nodded and turned to the others and translated the ‘keep’s words, for he had spok
en in the Jordian tongue—oh, not Valur, the battle-tongue of Jord, for that was close-held by the people of this land, reserved for warriors and war. Instead he spoke in the customary Jordian speech, which Egil could clearly understand, for the Jordians and his own Fjordlanders are said to have sprung from the same root stock…and their languages had much in common.
Egil turned back to the man. [“We need horses. Cattle, too.”]
The ‘keep’s eyes flew wide, wider than they had when he had first seen the Dylvana, wider than they had when he’d seen this strange, golden Warrior Maid. [“Ye dunt plan on goin’ there, anow, d’ ye? Up into Raudhrskal’s domain.”]
[“We do. Yet we’ll allow no others to accompany us.”]
[“’N’ j’st who d’ ye think’d be th’ bluidy fool ‘r fools who’d want t’ go wi’ ye, anow?”]
* * *
At dawn of the third day after arriving at Hafen, Arin and her companions set out from the port town. A gathering of citizenry watched as these strangers—four males and three females, seven fools altogether—embarked for Dragons’ Roost.
That one there, he be th’ one-eyed Fjordlander, a raider, no doubt. Aye, but don’t ye find it passin’ strange that there be two one-eyed men among them seven, th’ old one wi’ a regular evil eye, I’d say; but he be in his cups most o’ th’ time. Did ye hear that sweet-voiced bard sing, ‘n’ why do he be along? T’ sing t’ th’ Drake, d’ ye suppose? That big man there, he probably be a warrior, ‘n’ some tell they seen ‘im lying flat on th’ stones ‘n’ praying at Elwydd’s shrine. Ha! As if prayin’ t’ Elwydd belike t’ save ‘im fra th’ Drake. That one woman, th’ one wi’ th’ daggers—I heard she be a Gothonian. Ar, but th’ other one, th’ yellow warrior maid, what land d’ ye think she be fra, eh? That Elf, a Dylvana, no less, I’d say she be a sorceress o’ great power. ‘N’ they be all headed f’r Dragons’ Roost, ‘n’ why d’ ye think that be? Did ye see all o’ them ropes ‘n’ stuff what they took wi’ ’em on th’ pack mules? T’ get th’ treasure, no doubt: th’ bard t’ sing ‘im t’ sleep; th’ old man t’ give ‘im th’ evil eye; th’ sorcerous Dylvana t’ charm th’ Drake; th’ yellow warrior maid t’ cut ‘im up wi’ her magic swords; th’ other three t’ carry th’ gold ‘n’ jools. But it’ll fail, what e’re their plan be: cattle ‘r no, magic ‘r no, swords ‘r no, th’ Drake Raudhrskal’ll j’st burn ’em up wi’ ‘is fire ‘n’ be done wi’ it….
The Dragonstone Page 49