“My dragon lore,” the knight replied with a sad smile. “Almost everything that I knew about how to hunt and slay the beasts. But that’s not important now. He gave the Answer, and that was the thing that mattered.”
The dwarf waited eagerly for the conclusion of the tale.
“Save the Red Dragon,” the knight said. “That was all. And a place — the Gautr Marshes on the Old Earth.”
Favnir laughed. “Ah ha! That is good. I am the Red Dragon of Gautr, indeed. But, why? I have nothing to do with the War. I never fought outside my home world.” He looked around nervously, as if expecting the Abyss soldiers to leap from the shadows.
Sigrud scratched his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not something you are, but something you have? Like that ring?”
At the mention of Andvar’s Gift the dwarf stood up, abruptly. He kept his hand in his pocket.
“I promised to take you to my home,” he said. “Let us go there. It’s at the head of the fjord. You can look through my treasure. Anything you’ll find useful, you can take with you.”
From the bottom of the steep cliff, Favnir’s “house” at the top was almost invisible. The stone walls of the round fort resembled a jagged mountain edge. The dwarf had constructed two large buildings within the enclosure out of old oak beams: a mighty hall which was his dwelling, and a smaller shed which, judging by the tools and scrap metal strewn around it, was Favnir’s workshop.
“You built it all yourself?” Sigrud asked, incredulously.
“The marsh people helped me with the heavy carrying,” answered the dwarf.
“And you live here… alone?”
“I am still a prince,” the dwarf replied, beating his chest proudly. “I need a dwelling fit for one.”
As they moved closer to the dwelling, behind the hall, the knight noticed long eaves supported by ash pillars, and inside, a tall, black horse.
“It’s yours?” he asked. The animal seemed far too big for a dwarf.
“I found it on these marshes. No idea what it was doing here, but it seemed happier under the roof. Come inside. It’s time to sleep. We’ll loot the treasure tomorrow!”
“Sleep? But it’s still bright out…”
The dwarf laughed. “No wonder you look so weary! You can’t wait until nightfall to rest here.” He patted the knight on the back and opened the door to the hall.
The clatter of metal on stone woke him up. In a half-daze, he crept through the still-dark aisle of the timber hall and peeked outside through an oaken doorway.
The dwarf was lost among the pile of red metal. He was whacking at a broad, bumpy sheet with a large hammer.
“Is this the dragon?” Sigrud asked, coming closer. The wings were gone, but the head and most of the long carcass were there, a lot of it intact.
“Aye. I reckon it can still serve me a good many years if I patch it up. Good thing that the white Great One’s corpse is still there — I’ll use its wings to give me some real dragon flight!”
He laughed and turned back to his hammering. The knight studied his work for a while, wondering how the dwarf managed to make the massive contraption rise off the ground, before remembering his hunger.
“Of course!” Favnir slapped his forehead at the knight’s inquiry. “Forgive me, I haven’t had guests in ages. I tend to get absorbed in my work.”
After a hearty breakfast — where the dwarf managed to procure so much food in the middle of the marsh, was anyone’s guess — Favnir finally led the knight down to the deep cellar, a real dungeon, cut in the raw, living rock of the mountain beneath the timber hall.
The bronze door opened heavily, revealing the dwarf’s treasure room.
“Most of it is my rightful inheritance,” Favnir explained. “The rest I took from my father in a raid. You won’t find finer dwarven work outside Niðavellir’s royal household!”
Sigrud nodded. He walked slowly down the aisle formed by the hoard piled under both walls of the cellar. It was more an armoury than a treasury: between the golden plates and silver cups there was enough armour and weapons here to equip a small army.
He picked up one of a set of twin swords lying beside a coat of mail and a dragon-head shaped helmet; he didn’t need them, but a new sword was something he could definitely use. The other blade was notched and stained with old blood, but the one in his hand was still perfect.
“You have a good eye,” the dwarf said, licking his lips. “That’s Hrotti, and the other one’s Ridill. They belonged to the two brothers who perished in that first assault.”
“I’ll take it,” the knight said, raising the sword to the light of the torch in Favnir’s hand. “An axe is not a weapon fit for a dragon knight.”
“I’ll have that axe in exchange, then. It’s good ogre steel.”
They switched the weapons and Sigrud ventured deeper into the dungeon, but could not find anything else that would prove useful or provide any clues to the Shadow’s whereabouts.
“You have nothing else?” he asked.
The dwarf seemed wounded. “I am just a poor exile,” Favnir said, “I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.”
“No, that’s not — ”
A loud rumble interrupted him. The mountain shook, and the ground shifted from under his feet.
“Earthquake!” cried the dwarf. He, too, was thrown down by the blast; scrambling on all fours, he tried to grab the torch rolling away into the darkness, when another tremor tore the ceiling.
Sigrud grabbed Favnir’s collar and pulled him into the back of the cavern, away from the falling rocks.
They worked together in pitch, stuffy darkness; he, shattering the rock with small, precise explosions, the dwarf hacking away at the boulder using the ogre hatchet like a pick-axe. As they tried to release themselves from the mountain prison, the earth above continued to shake and heave in spasms; they heard soft, distant explosions.
“What do you think is going on up there?” Favnir whispered in a moment of respite.
“It’s your land,” the white knight replied with a shrug.
“I’ve never heard anything like it. If it’s an avalanche or an earthquake, it’s been going for far too long. Could it be another dragon?”
“I don’t know. I told you, all my dragon lore is gone. But I think it’s something else… something bigger than even the greatest of beasts.”
The dwarf grasped the handle of his axe firmly and resumed the digging.
After what seemed like years, but could not have been more than a few days, they finally broke through the rubble. The other side was also dark, and for a moment he despaired, thinking they would have to dig through another block, but then the light of early dawn painted the walls of the cellar a faint pink.
They crawled through the narrow, carved-out passage, climbed the damp, slippery stair back to the timber hall, and lay exhausted on the deerskin-covered floor, listening to the unceasing pandemonium outside. He looked through the wide, glass-less window, and saw the sky lit up by fire and lightning.
A ship built of steel fell down from the clouds and disappeared beyond the edge of the mountain.
“What do you think this may be?” asked Favnir.
They were peering over the cliff into the valley below. Some sort of encampment was being established along the white-rushing mountain river; surrounded by a rectangular wall of steel sheets was a conglomerate of jagged constructs of black metal, some of it buildings, some of it flying ships moored tight to the rocky ground. Soldiers ran about the camp, in dark armour, finishing the construction work. They were too distant to make out the details, but they were larger and bulkier than most humans. Once in a while, one of the ships was launched and disappeared beyond the mountains.
“An Abyss scout camp,” replied Sigrud.
“Abyss! Out here?” The dwarf’s eyes widened.
“It’s no more than a battalion — like on the Water. Maybe they are lost, too. But how did they get this far? The Old Earth should be impenetrable…�
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“Look!” Favnir pointed to a dirt road leading to the camp’s main gate. A large group of men, carrying heavy loads of timber and stones, was being prodded and pushed along it by several mounted warriors. “Marsh people.”
“Slaves of the Shadow,” said Sigrud. “We can’t help them.”
He stood up, hiding in the shadow of a precipice. “I must notify the order.”
“We should strike now.” The dwarf’s eyes glinted; his hand tightened on the battle axe. “When they least expect it.”
“We?” the knight chuckled. “There’s only two of us.”
“You’re a Dragon Knight, and I’m the prince of Niðavellir,” Favnir replied proudly.
Sigrud looked down at the camp. The dwarf was right: the soldiers showed no sign of expecting any kind of fight other than scuffling about with a few Marsh men. The camp was not yet fully fortified, and there were only a few guards posted. In the old days, he knew, he could take them all on. But now… He shook his head. “If only I had my dragon… or at least Grani, my horse…”
“But you do have a dragon,” said Favnir with a mischievous smile. “And you can have that black charger I found.”
And then he realized. Garoud’s Answer. What he had lost on Eilill, he had regained on Old Earth. The dragon, the horse, even the sword… He drew Hrotti from its dwarf-metal sheath and the blade rang out clearly and truthfully.
He had searched for the Abyss all those years… and now that it finally came to him, was he really going to shirk from the fight?
“Can you really get this contraption of yours to fly again?” he asked, looking at the reflection of his eyes in the silvery blade. Zeal had replaced all signs of weariness from them.
“It will be ready tomorrow,” the dwarf boasted.
He waited patiently until the brief summer darkness fell on the valley. The soldiers of the Abyss, unused to the short nights, just like himself a few days ago, stayed awake until far too late, and were now groggy and lethargic. Complacent and feeling secure in the remoteness of their encampment, they lit just a few lamps around the perimeter, too few to matter.
He leaned down and stroked the neck of his horse gently. Whoever owned the beast before, had called it “Sleipnir” — or at least, that was the name branded in moon runes along its raven-black mane. It was a good mount, strong and silent, almost as good as Grani. He hoped it would serve him longer.
He raised the blade high above his head and turned it until it reflected the beam of the Moon. That was the signal.
“Dairon Aerondgé, Favnir!” His battle cry echoed throughout the fjord.
The metal dragon whooshed down the slope, first in silence, like a kite in the wind, then with a mighty roar, spitting steel-melting flame as it flew. For a moment, the knight was still, admiring Favnir’s mastery of the winds — the gift possessed by all members of the royal dwarven household; then he spurred Sleipnir to a run and charged at the gate of the Abyss camp. The sword in his hand burned bright gold with raw power and fury.
Favnir was right. The Shadow soldiers were no match to the wrath of a Dragon Knight and a dwarven Prince. The slaughter was almost complete; whoever survived the first onslaught was finished by the Marsh men released from their chains by Hrotti’s blade. Only one flying ship managed to launch safely and, manoeuvring fiercely, escape the flames of Favnir’s machine. He let it go. A single Shadow ship was an easy thing to track, and he was certain the defenders of the Old Earth would have little trouble destroying both the ship and its crew.
He wiped the sword of the dark, foul blood. Beside him, among the smouldering ruins and the slain bodies, with clanking of joints and hissing of steam, landed Favnir’s dragon, somewhat battered and bruised in the fight with the flying ships. In its claws it held one of the defeated soldiers, a red-skinned orc, judging by the large, spiked pauldrons — and officer.
The dragon’s head opened with a hiss.
“I cut him out of one of those infernal longships,” the dwarf explained, ignoring the officer’s curses. “I figured you’d want one alive.”
He admired the dwarf’s cool head. It hadn’t occurred to him at all to take prisoners in the heat of the battle; the fight was too brief, too intense to worry about anything else than parrying blows and striking down the enemy.
He leaned down and, grabbing the Shadow officer by the collar, raised him up. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in the slithering tongue of the Abyss. The soldier fell silent, staring into the knight’s dark, fiery eyes.
“You are the Destroyer,” he answered, at last. “He, Who Does Not Wear a Helmet.”
“Do you know their gibberish?” the dwarf asked curiously, coming closer. “How come?”
Sigrud did not answer. How could he explain to him what it meant to be the Destroyer? What it meant to be able to choose sides freely, without ever having to suffer guilt or remorse?
He felt no shame for how he had led his life; it was what it was — he was only following his destiny, led by the Prophecy and the twisted webs of fate. Among many imitators, he alone was the real deal, the saviour foretold in the ancient lore. Garoud the Wise had told him as much. He was absolved of all blame. Could he have chosen differently? Made better choices? He refused to believe so. Whatever choice he had made, it had to be the best possible at the time. It could not have been otherwise.
But he knew Favnir would not understand any of this. To him, the once-Black Knight would be nothing but a traitor. And so, he remained silent on the matter.
“You should have stayed with us,” the Abyss officer spat through his fangs. “We would’ve won this a lot sooner with you by our side.”
Win? What’s he on about?
“What are you doing here?” Sigrud continued the questioning. “Are any more of you coming? If you know who I am, you know I can make you speak.”
The soldier laughed hysterically. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what? Start making sense, orc, before I lose my patience!”
“You’ve lost! The Old Earth has been conquered. We are not a forward outpost — we are just marauders, mopping up survivors. If you don’t believe me, check the maps and codes in my ship.”
He sensed a madman’s truth in the orc’s words… and in a flash of foresight, perceived the entirety of Garoud’s answer. This wasn’t just a battalion of the Abyss. The entire army of the Shadow had come to face him in a final reckoning.
Stunned, he let go of the orc. “The flying ship…” he began.
“It’s bound for the regional headquarters. They will send another, stronger battalion. There’s plenty to spare. Nothing you did here mattered.” The orc’s eyes beamed with pride.
Who did this to them? Who instilled this new spirit in the soldiers of the Abyss?
“The Source World is ours,” the orc kept gloating. “There is not one army left standing to defend the Old Earth from the Shadow.”
He started laughing again, boastful, confident despite the slaughter of his men around him. Sigrud thrust the sword into his stomach. The orc did not stop laughing until all his intestines had spilled out onto the cold dirt.
If there are no armies left, he thought coolly, I will have to build one. But how? And with what?
“What have you learned?” Favnir asked drawing his battle axe and cutting the orc’s head off for a trophy. Moonshine gleamed off the weapon’s blade.
The armour and weapons in the dwarf’s treasury: another perfectly positioned piece of the puzzle laid in his path.
The knight looked up at the Old Moon; the bright silver orb whose light, reflected a thousand-fold, shone over every single Mirror World. It filled him with sudden confidence.
This is it, he realized, perhaps for the first time. This is what I was born for.
“Gather those Marsh People we’ve freed,” he said, sheathing his blade. “We’re going to need more men.”
END
By James Calbraith
THE YEAR OF THE DRAGON:
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Table of Contents
Credits
Dragonbone Chest
Map
The Chest of the Sanctuary Keeper
BOOK I: The Duke; Adagio Maestoso
TREMORS
THE LAST OF THE MALES
THE CHEST OF DUKE AYARIS OF MADAVANT
THE LAST OF THE FEMALES
THE CHEST OF SONNAI OF TARRENTE
BOOK II: The Fox; Allegro Sostenuto
THE TALE GATHERER
THE CHEST OF BEREC OF THE OWL MARSH
THE FORTRESS HILLS
THE CHEST OF ALOUE OF TACOSI MOUNTAIN
THE GATES OF EDEN
BOOK III: The Eden; Calando Affretando
DRAGON NORTH
SALLY
THE CHEST OF THE FIRST SPEAKER
THE GARDEN
THE CHEST OF THE CHEST MASTER
*
The Crown of Abyss
I. The Fortress.
II. The Crown
III. White Knight.
IV. War
V. Passage
VI. Grey Robe
*
Dragonsbane
1. HEART OF ICE
2. HEART OF SAND
3. HEART OF THE FOREST
4. HEART OF AZOTH
5. HEART OF EARTH
6. HEART OF WISDOM
*
Favnirsbane
By James Calbraith
Dragons' Fall_Tales from the Mirror Worlds Page 22