Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  They burst out onto the plain with firewind in their faces. Othalas’ tongue hung out—a splash of red among the black. Melkion launched himself from her shoulder and flew before them, flapping his gossamer wings through air rippling with heat.

  To their left, a ridgeline fell steadily into plains revealing another expanse of sky. Luthiel stared in awe at the vast horizon before her, its tiny tongues of flame hugging the world’s edge, casting all in a pale glow. The dim light flickered beneath an orb of pitch squatting above the horizon. It was black and deep red. Like a ball of iron stained with old blood.

  Despite the heat, Luthiel shivered.

  Gorothoth.

  She quailed and buried her face into Othalas’ fur.

  Can it see me? she thought, remembering the black mote in the sky. Does it know I have the Stone?

  But she felt no cold finger probing through the heat and, slowly, she raised her head from Othalas’ back. The black moon was still there, terrible and dark. Yet whatever wakefulness it possessed when she’d used her Stone before was gone. She glanced at the sorcerer, wondering why he hadn’t warned her. He, too, was staring at the black moon. Perhaps he didn’t remember it would still be in the sky. Then she realized it was rising.

  On Oesha the black moon comes with chill, the Vyrl thought. Here it comes with burning.

  It was difficult for her to grasp. She’d always associated the black moon with things dark and cold. It came first at Summerdark—appearing for only a few hours before setting. Then it returned, weeks later, for just a few days as summer failed. By late autumn, it was a constant feature in the sky. A chill fell over all lands and darkness ate up the stars. Day by day, it deepened. Until everywhere the world lay dim and frozen.

  But here the black moon was rising before the coming of the greater sun. A sun that, on this world, brought fire and death instead of the life-warmth of summer.

  She wondered if this was a world that loved the gentle light of Oerin’s Eye.

  It must be enough in the thick air. Here, Soelee is the tyrant.

  They rode on into the heat. Occasionally, they would come across animals—wild packs of black-skinned dogs or strange herd-beasts with three horns rising from their heads. Once, they came within sight of a tribe of trolls. All stopped and stared at them, watching dumbfounded or jeering as they rode on toward the blazing horizon.

  They must think we are mad, she thought.

  Everything here flees the fire, Ecthellien replied. They know they must keep moving toward night to escape it.

  What happens to those who cannot keep up?

  They fall behind and are left to thirst and fire, Ecthellien thought.

  It is awful, she thought.

  They rode on. The land flashed by as the fires ahead slowly grew. After a while, the burning in Luthiel’s hands and arms became too much. She couldn’t hold on to Othalas any longer.

  Enough! Enough! Let’s stop for a short while, she thought.

  Tired so soon?

  I am. And if you want me to stay atop this wolf, then you’d better let me take my rest.

  “Othalas, stop, Luthiel needs to rest a moment,” Ecthellien said.

  The wolf snorted, then jogged behind a rock outcropping so Luthiel could sit in the shade. His body trembled as he lay down behind the rock and his breath came out in hoarse pants. Luthiel felt too weak to move but forced herself to climb off the wolf’s back. Walking around his front she looked at him.

  His tongue and teeth were caked in blood, and with each pant ropes of red and black dripped from his mouth.

  Luthiel stumbled back.

  “Not pretty is it?” Othalas growled.

  Luthiel shook her head. “No, it’s not so bad,” she said, doing her best to reassure him.

  “You’re a wretched liar,” the wolf said around a cough.

  She fumbled with the vial of antidote. “Here take some more of this. Rendillo said it would help.”

  “Stupid grendilo and his potions,” the wolf snapped. Despite his complaints, he let Luthiel give him more of the foul stuff. The wolf choked the antidote down and with each cough more blood rose into his mouth. It dripped from his tongue until the ground in front of him was covered with red splotches.

  He can’t continue like this, she thought.

  He will and he must, Ecthellien replied.

  Mithorden noticed her concerned look and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “The wolf is strong.” But when he glanced back at the wolf, she could see the fear in his eyes.

  Realizing it was better for Othalas if they pressed on soon, she decided to make do with only a little rest. Taking out one of her waterskins, she took several long drinks before eating another one of Rendillo’s salt crystals. She grabbed a fistful of nuts and ate what she could. The hot air ruined both the food’s taste and her appetite. But she knew she must eat something to sustain herself on the long journey.

  Then she climbed onto Othalas’ back and they were running out over the low hills and into the blazing horizon. Before them, the black moon lorded over a ruined waste. Everywhere Luthiel looked she saw shriveled plants. Withered orange grasses, bushes heavy with wilted leaves and thorns, and strange plants that looked like yellow pine cones growing straight up out of the ground rushed past her. As they journeyed, even these became sparse, giving way to a heat-blasted deadland. Luthiel gripped Othalas with all of her strength. She didn’t look into the burning horizon or the land that was rushing by on either side. She only concentrated, trying to force her muscles to work.

  Her nose began to bleed. First a trickle and then a deep, rich, flow ran from her nose, onto her lips and down her chin. She could taste blood in her mouth as well. She pulled the nose-plugs from her pouch and stuffed them in. But now she was forced to breathe through her mouth. Her throat and lungs burned all the more, growing rawer with each breath.

  Othalas’ breathing became labored as they continued, and twice he stopped in his tracks to vomit red and black upon the ground. At these times, she fed him more of the antidote which the wolf choked down even as he complained.

  Time was difficult to measure. If the moons moved in the sky, it was too little for Luthiel to notice. Her world became one of burning heat and breath, of aching muscles, and of bleeding. The heat was unbearable and sweat flowed over her body in a torrent. She drank water continuously but she couldn’t quench her thirst. The salt stung her mouth and throat but she forced herself to eat it—noticing when she didn’t she began to feel dizzy and her heart raced in her chest. Her skin became red and irritated in patches, splotching in the heat and the caustic air. She wondered how anything survived in this place.

  The creatures here must be made of tougher stock than elves or anything else on Oesha, she thought.

  Trolls were such creatures. Troll-skin was as thick as leather and studded with bits of bone and gristle, giving it the consistency of gravel. If they took a cut or even lost a limb, it would grow back over time. The only sure way to kill a troll was to burn it in white-hot fire.

  This world must be filled with things as hardy as a troll, she thought.

  For all she and Othalas suffered Ecthellien and Mithorden seemed implacable and the dragon untouched.

  “They are made of stouter stuff than you or I. No vapor or venom, not even fire will harm a dragon,” Mithorden had said.

  Other than the odd drop of blood on the mouth or nose, neither sorcerer nor Vyrl showed any signs of fatigue. It embarrassed Luthiel that she was in so much pain. The hot, caustic air took a terrible toll. Parts of her body were still recovering from her ordeals. The Vyrl, the Dreaming, the spiders’ ambush and almost twenty hours of journeying added to her pain.

  She held on, pushing herself as hard as she was able, and slowly the fires on the horizon grew until they become tall tails of flame spreading up and up. It seemed to Luthiel that she stared into a storm front where the clouds were made of red pillars of fire that climbed to the very roof of the sky. The flam
es fanned out as they rose—blanketing the blue in roiling yellow and red.

  The fires drew nearer, until when she looked up, it seemed they had covered a quarter of all the sky.

  She felt as though she were standing in a pottery oven. Two of her water skins were already empty and she was halfway through the third with only one full skin left. Looking again at the flames, she hoped fervently that they were nearing the far Lilani.

  Suddenly, Othalas stumbled, then vomited again onto the ground. She dismounted and emptied her full waterskin into his mouth. The wolf’s legs collapsed beneath him and he fell. The corners of his eyes were caked with blood and long ropes of it oozed from his mouth. She had used up the rest of her antidote or she would have given him more. He blinked his eyes. But to her, he seemed both confused and angry. He snarled at Melkion as the dragon flew by.

  “I don’t think he can hold out much longer,” she said, glancing at Ecthellien and Mithorden. “The poison is tearing him apart. Can’t you see—he’s killing himself to carry us.”

  Then, the werewolf’s eyes seemed to clear.

  “Stupid elf,” he growled. “What do you know of the strength of werewolves?”

  He stood and shook himself. But his legs trembled beneath him.

  “You’re shaking!” Luthiel cried.

  “So would you if you’d run three hundred miles, even without a burden!” He coughed and more blood came up. Luthiel was splattered by it. She was terrified by the amount coming from him. It permeated the air, making him smell like a slaughterhouse.

  “But—”

  “Get on!” he growled. “We’ve not much further to go. Then I can rest while this silly spider venom runs its course.”

  More blood was flowing from his mouth. But she did as he said. She couldn’t see how he was still standing, much less maintaining the strength to run. Yet, as soon as she, Ecthellien, and Mithorden had clambered onto his back, he sprang forward, shooting like a bolt toward the towering flames.

  “Don’t worry!” Ecthellien cried. “The strength of werewolves is the strength of life itself. If anything can survive harm it is Othalas.”

  Luthiel nodded but she feared for the great wolf nonetheless. She wrapped her arms around his broad neck and whispered into his ear.

  “Come on! You can make it!”

  But tears ran down her cheeks. It seemed to her, with each choking gasp, the great wolf was dying.

  Still he ran and the fires before them grew until the sky was covered in flame. The light and heat were so intense that she was forced to hide her face from it. Blisters formed on the tips of her fingers, nose and cheeks. Smoke billowed from the land around her and she choked on its stink. The sound of burning grew until it filled her ears with its endless roar. Flames sprang up. At first, there were only a few. Then more and more until Othalas ran side to side around long walls of dancing fire. Thin wisps of smoke rose from their clothes and off of Othalas’s fur.

  “The fires are upon us!” she yelled.

  “We have a few minutes more!” Mithorden cried. “We’re very close.”

  He frowned and his eyes scanned the landscape.

  “There!” he said, pointing toward a tower of rock a half mile distant.

  Othalas sprinted for the rock. But as they neared it, Luthiel’s heart froze, for she saw draped along the shoulder of that grim spire a massive bulk in the shape of a serpent.

  Dragon at the Gate

  Luthiel watched on, entranced. This was no wyrmling like the one sitting on her shoulder. Here was a great dragon vast as the spire on which it rested. She’d heard many tales of the great dragons. Stories told to her in the deep winter by flir-bug glow. Born of Wyrd itself, growing larger by sleeping, the dragons were rumored to live forever unless killed by some violence. As the ages passed they were said to became awesome as dreams, terrible as nightmares. Lorethain had once told her of their deep kinship with the forces of air, earth, water and fire. Hueron had spoken of how they could fly and swim, eat rock and breathe fire, and survive even the utter chill of the void between worlds. The greatest dragons could shoot a line of fire a thousand feet long, Galwin had once boasted. And then there were the legends she’d known since childhood. In one, a dragon ate all the inhabitants of some far away village and lived there still, brooding over bones and treasure. In another, a great drake devoured a Tree of Life and was locked away by mighty enchantment, held prisoner in a mountain’s heart. Valkire slew a dragon once, and then he tamed another.

  Luthiel would never have believed any of these tales, until now. For all the grand stories of these great and horrific monsters could not make words believable enough to match the thing that had coiled up around the huge mound in front of her.

  It was long—longer than the tallest trees of Minonowe—and its black and brimstone body looked tougher than iron. Great wings like those of a bat gathered at its flanks within a sheaf of spines. Spikes ran in a ridge from tail to head before ending in a crown of horns. Sunken in that terrible head were a pair of lava-splash eyes and from its mouth streamed smoke.

  It was a dragon and, judging by its size, ancient in dreams. Yet for all the terror she felt rising in her chest, she could not flinch or look away. Its eyes drew her in. Held her.

  Othalas skidded to a stop, claws making gouges in the steaming ground.

  “Narhoth,” he coughed through the blood.

  “You know its name?!” Luthiel shouted.

  “The mate of Desire whom Valkire slew an age ago,” Mithorden replied. “A terror as ancient as hills that were mountains.”

  Narhoth was the dragon’s name and long she had lived upon the worlds in hunger. She had fed from the hand of one or another, but she was too proud and too great to serve any master for long. In her black thought, she was queen and all should bend before her terrible will.

  Now that will reached out over the blasted plain and Luthiel strained beneath it. The dragon’s eyes settled on her. The air around her grew heavy. Her vision blurred. She reeled and a hissing sound filled her ears.

  There you are! a voice called through the hissing.

  Luthiel knew it was the dragon. Somehow, in her mind.

  The one he spoke of! the voice continued. Who turned Vaelros. Who fed Vyrl. Daughter of my love’s slayer! Like a great crocodile, the dragon opened her mouth. Drool leaked out between the teeth.

  Terror rushed over Luthiel. She means to eat me, she thought even as she struggled against the force that had slipped around her like a coil, pulling her toward the dragon.

  You will come to me!

  It took all her effort to sit still and not leap from the werewolf. She struggled. Each instant stretched out. Sweat dripped from her nose and turned to mist before it touched the ground. Dragon eyes shone down and down. Seeming to grow huge as volcano mouths. She pushed back, fighting desperately to break the Dragon’s hold. It felt like pushing against a horse, a hill, a mountain. She quavered. Then she crumbled. As she failed she felt her limbs spasm and then jerk as one toward the monster. She lunged, her feet pushing away from the wolf. She felt as if some thread was reeling her toward the dragon who’d stretched itself out on the hillside, mouth agape to receive her. She felt a foot touch ground and tensed her muscles to sprint toward it. But Ecthellien caught her, gripping her by the mail coat. She kicked then struck at his hand. His grip seemed to slacken. She felt herself slipping away. Then, his fingers tightened and he drew her in, hauling her back onto the wolf. She struck at Ecthellien’s face. It took a shout from Mithorden to revive her. She sat dazed, panting through her rags, Ecthellien’s arm around her chest.

  Still, those terrible eyes reached out to her. But their spell had broken. The dragon’s will seemed to hiss in the air, but it no longer held her. Before she could catch her breath, another dragon thought came.

  Very well. Then I will come to you.

  Luthiel trembled. “Let’s get out of here!” she yelled.

  “Our way is blocked!” Melkion replied. Uncertain, they pa
used as the fires grew and the monster reared before them. Then, as if by a silent signal, Mithorden and Ecthellien drew swords together.

  In response, the great wyrm unfurled her wings. The motion made a clap like thunder and the wings spread out wide as a storm cloud. A gale rushed out on a spray of flame. The fires surrounding the drake swelled with a howl. With a single wing beat Luthiel could feel as much as hear, Narhoth launched from the spire and swooped toward them.

  It seemed impossible that something so large could move so fast. Some nightmare marriage between volcano and tornado, rushing at her. Nothing can fight this! If only we’d made it through the webs! she thought bitterly. If I’d only controlled my anger!

  Then, with the dragon nearly on them, Mithorden thrust his sword high chanting—

  Nani Lumen! Eleth Eshald!

  Which means: “Here is light! Let it be my shield!”

  With his words, brilliance shone from his sword’s tip. The light grew into a globe surrounding them. The air inside felt cool.

  The horror bore down on them. Its eyes so bright Luthiel had to squint to look at them. The violence of her flight so great it sounded as though the air was ripping. A feeling of awe settled upon her and she wanted to do nothing more than stand and stare. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes.

  More dragon magic! she thought. Frantically, she reached for her bow.

  The dragon rushed on. It cried out again and this time she trembled, fighting down a sudden panic and an overwhelming urge to run. Melkion let out a cry in answer and Othalas howled with him as they turned to face the drake. The sound echoed through the waste only to be drowned out by the noise of the dragon. Then Narhoth breathed and in front of her a flame built up like a wave pushed ahead of a great ship. Luthiel drew her bow and let her arrow fly. It was caught up in the fire and cast away like a burning twig.