by C S Marks
“There has been no sign of the dragon since daybreak,” said Farin.
Indeed, there had not, for this dragon was different from any the defenders had seen before. It, and its twin sibling that now rested with it belowground, had been reared in darkness. Bred for night flying, they were as dark as doom, as cunning as cats, as graceful and silent as serpents, and twice as lethal. They were Drach and Garthor, the Night-fliers. Hatched in far eastern realms, they had been reared in the Fell-ruin under the directive of Lord Kotos.
The men who rode them were members of the dragon-cult of the Anori, lured into service with promises made by the Beguiler. Their bows were nearly as powerful as Galador’s, and their aim was deadly. They had been ordered to kill those in command, throwing the enemy into chaos
The defenders of Mountain-home had little recourse against such beasts, and they had beheld only one of them up to now. Archers had sent forth a storm of arrows against it, but it was a rare bow that would pierce dragon-scales. The leathery wings were another matter, and the archers soon discovered that they could discourage the dragon by taking aim at them. Drach had sustained many small holes in his wings, but he was not unduly dismayed. The archers who had caused them had not been so fortunate. Drach learned to turn his fiery breath upon any bowman he beheld.
Estle had been ordered to remain in the Great Hall, away from the fighting, as she had some skill in tending to the wounded. “Fetch Hallagond,” she said to Lady Ordath. “He killed the dragon in Dûn Arian, and he may have some knowledge of how to deal with this one.” Hallagond was brought to sit with Magra and the others in council. Azori had insisted on coming with him.
“We may not have much time,” said Magra. “The dragon has gone to ground with the arrival of the sun, but the attack is likely to continue. They will try to wear us down further before nightfall, and then we will face the beast again.” He shook his head. “I have never seen the like of it. I heard nothing of its approach.” He turned to Hallagond. “Well, Worm-slayer, have you any thoughts?”
Hallagond’s eyes grew wide. “My thoughts at the moment are limited. They center upon one question—why are you asking me?” He shot a black look at Estle as he said so.
“Has anyone else here ever slain a dragon?” asked Farin, glowering beneath his peppered brows.
“All right, so I killed a dragon. It was nothing like the one that flew over our heads last night.”
“That’s true, but you must tell us how you killed it,” said Ordath. “You have slain at least one dragon more than we have.”
“Yes, tell them, for all the good it will do,” said Azori. “Unless something changes, we will not withstand another night like the last one.” Although everyone sitting at council found Azori’s pessimism exasperating, they knew he was right.
The next hour was spent in discussion, as Hallagond recalled the slaying of Lokai. When he had finished, Magra sat with his fingers interlaced, resting his chin upon them. “So…you aimed for the roof of the dragon’s mouth, yet this dragon could not fly, and was standing right before you with its mouth wide open?”
“That’s about right,” said Hallagond. “I told you it would be of little benefit to consult me. This night-flying dragon has smoother, thinner scales, and its mouth is much smaller. It also has a long neck, unlike the desert beast, which could not even turn its head without moving its torso. I don’t believe we should count on a clear shot straight to the vulnerable spot in its mouth.”
“What then should we do?” asked Wellyn. “There are many fine archers here, but our bows will not penetrate the beast’s hide.
“Mmmm…” said Magra, lowering his eyebrows.
“Some are powerful enough,” said Azori. “We are using them to defend the battlements, and they could skewer the dragon if the chance came.” He referred to the small, elegant ballistae that the defenders had used to hurl stones upon the enemy. They could also be used to launch a great spear.
“The dragon-rider has seen them, and he is clever enough to avoid them,” said Magra. “They are powerful, but not precise enough to take such an agile beast. Unless….”
“Unless what, my lord?” asked Hallagond.
“Unless we deceive the rider and lure him right into them. I have an idea that might work. In the meantime, we must press our enemies during the daylight hours. Let us lay our plans and then go forth to command our comrades. We’ll take some of our own back before nightfall.”
The forces of Mountain-home fought throughout the day, raining stones down from the battlements, using fire and oil and any other means at their disposal. The archers were busy sending arrows down upon the foul assembly.
The Ulcas did not enjoy the light, and many had retreated. The trolls, who could not bear it at all, had gone belowground. Yet they would all return when darkness came.
“There are underground ways into Mountain-home, but the enemy does not know them,” said Farin to his folk. “Let’s take advantage of the opportunity. The trolls have gone below to rest from the sun, yet we know these paths better than they do. I’ll wager we could do some damage before they emerge again at dusk—who will march with me?”
It was an unnecessary question. Soon every dwarf in Mountain-home had left to go troll-hunting, and a number of the Elves of Mountain-home had gone with them.
By the time they returned, some things had changed, but not for the better. The Ulcas had taken pitch and black oil, and had now set the lands around Mountain-home ablaze. The trees were burning, but it was the choking black oil-smoke that was most distressing—it confounded the aim of the archers atop the walls and dimmed the sunlight beneath it.
Magra, who had made a friend of Farin, was very pleased to see that he had survived the expedition. “How fared you against the trolls?” he asked. “It appears that most of you have rejoined us.”
“We lost a few, but we definitely won the day,” said Farin with some pride. “The trolls were weary from last night’s battle. They have not the stamina of the Children of Fior!” He lowered his voice and winked. “You now have seven fewer trolls to contend with, my lord. I’m just sorry it isn’t twenty.”
Magra was impressed. “Seven is a very satisfactory number, my friend,” he said. “I just hope you have not spent your strength before the battle tonight.”
“That I should live to hear such an obscenity from the mouth of a friend! Don’t worry about the folk of the Deep-caverns. Troll-hunting is fine exercise, and we needed it.”
Despite Farin’s bravado, the dwarves were weary—one could see it. Troll-hunting might have been fine exercise, but it was taxing and difficult, in addition to being potentially lethal.
Wellyn appeared at Magra’s right hand, his young face distressed. “The sun is setting,” he said. “We must make ready.”
“Indeed, we must,” said Magra. “If you will forgive me, Farin, I have an important role to play in tonight’s conflict. It seems that I am to be dragon-bait.”
Magra then drew Lady Ordath aside. “You must safeguard yourself…it is my task to lead the people in battle, and it is your task to make certain you do not fall. Please, my lady, remain beneath the realm tonight and secure yourself within the safety of walls. Take guards with you. When all is safe, I will summon you.”
Ordath started to protest, but she did not, for Magra was right. If Ordath fell, Mountain-home would fall with her. She looked into his scarred, earnest face, knowing that she would never have a more devoted and faithful protector.
As he left the Great Hall, Magra was met by Hallagond, who carried the shield of dragon-scale he had been given in Dûn Arian and the dragon-hide gloves Gaelen had made for him. “It seems I might have something you need, my lord,” he said, bowing and handing the items to Magra. “Gaelen made the gauntlets, but apparently she believes me to be bigger than I am, as they are too large for me.”
Magra took the items with thanks. The gauntlets would prove to be a perfect fit. He then retrieved his own mighty shield, which was of blu
ed steel emblazoned with the white flame and seven silver stars. He offered it to Hallagond, saying, “Take this in exchange for your thoughtful gift, for you may have need of it. I know it has seen me safely through many battles.”
Hallagond bowed and accepted Magra’s shield, though it was far too large and heavy for his liking. Yet the spirit behind the exchange had moved them both.
The sun set over the mountains, and long shadows fell. Magra now stood, clad in full armor, bearing Hallagond’s dragon-shield, clearly visible despite the dark smoke carried on the west wind. He stood upon one of the vaulted rooftops, presumably to better order his warriors.
He carried the most powerful bow ever made in his left hand, and at his feet were tempered steel barbs that would almost certainly penetrate the dragon’s hide. Two of the ballistae had been concealed; they were aimed into the air above Magra’s head. When the worm came to take him, it would be first to fall. “Come on, then,” Magra muttered, scanning the dark sky in all directions.
The Elves of the Greatwood caught the first flickering glimpse of Drach in the orange light of the burning trees. “Look to yourselves!” they cried. “The dragon comes!”
Magra steadied himself, still shouting orders to his archers, trying to keep up appearances. This was not difficult, as the Ulcas were storming the walls, yet because of the terrain there were relatively few places that their efforts would be effective. The defenders concentrated on making things as difficult as possible, now looking nervously into the air, watching for the dragon. Without further warning, it appeared.
Magra’s prediction that Drach would come for him was well founded. The huge, dark triangular shape made straight for the rooftop as Magra stood ready. At the direction of its rider, the beast opened its mouth and sent forth flames to engulf the Elven commander, but Magra crouched beneath his marvelous shield. Though singed, he was not damaged. The dragon passed over him, wheeled about, and came back for another try, its black-clad rider preparing to aim a killing shot. Magra’s bow and quiver lay at his feet, and he dropped the shield the moment the flames faded, fitting the bow and drawing it before the creature could get another good breath. He sent forth a shot straight toward the dragon, which swerved, but not in time to avoid being hit hard at the base of its right wing. The rider’s shot went wild.
“Now!” yelled Magra, for the beast was directly over his head. Azori and Hallagond manned the two ballistae, and they loosed the weapons, hurling two great spears straight toward the dragon.
Despite Magra’s arrow, Drach avoided one of the spears, but not the other. It tore through the dragon’s breast, sending it wheeling in the air to sail headlong into the south wall, nearly demolishing it. It crashed down onto one of the rocky mountainsides, taking a number of unfortunate Ulcas with it. Its rider did not survive his great beast’s fall.
The dragon, wounded but not yet dead, turned on Wrothgar’s army as it thrashed about in agony, sending flames forth in several directions. It struggled to its feet, trying to lift from the ground to no avail, stumbling and flopping like a wounded eagle, crushing all in its path. Finally its struggles diminished, and it was still.
There was no time for celebration, for the walls on the south march had been breached, and the defenders fought hand-to-hand. Archers were useless here, as their arrows would just as likely take one of their own. Bows were laid aside and blades were drawn. Wellyn led about half of his folk into the fray, leaving the others to defend the north and west walls.
Farin and his dwarves were pleased that the battle had come to blades, for their axes and hammers would now be quite busy. They concentrated on several hill-trolls that had made their way through the breach.
Hallagond and Azori fought side-by-side, in the manner of sutherling swordsmen, with a short blade in each hand. They were more than a match for any Ulcan invader. Yet Ulcas came, and more after them, and still more after them. Azori and Hallagond grew weary, and their blades had lost both speed and accuracy.
“At least you were not required to slay a dragon by yourself this time,” said Azori, grinning at Hallagond, though he was panting hard.
“No, and I’m glad of it,” said Hallagond. “But if these creatures keep coming I fear it will be the death of us both. I’m winded, and I cannot gain my breath.”
“That will not do,” said Azori as he ran his blade through the neck of another Ulca. The horrid, hairless creature flopped at his feet like a dying fish. “I told Estle I would see to your safety, and I would rather not face her wrath if I fail. Let’s retreat for the moment.” His face was red with exertion, sweat running in rivulets through the grime that had stained it. He finished off two more attackers, and then turned and made for cover. Hallagond followed his example. They had to catch their breath and recover, if only for a brief while.
Magra leapt down from the rooftop, drew his own great sword, and plunged into the heart of the fighting. His people rallied to him and drove the Ulcas back—it would have been a dire blow to the defenders had Magra been taken from them. The night would be long, dark, and red with blood. And it had only begun.
Gorgon had finally arrived at the chamber of Duinar, but he had not yet entered. He hesitated, smiling as he beheld his mortal enemy, Gaelen Taldin, who was guarding the Stone of Léir with her blades drawn.
“Come on, then,” said Gaelen. “Show yourself! The blood of the sons of Talrodin still stains your remaining hand. Show yourself! I’m waiting.” Gorgon took notice of the blood on her left sleeve and wondered.
Kotos had been somewhat taken aback at the sight of Duinar, though he relaxed when he realized that Duinar could do no harm. He spoke to Gorgon from the amulet.
Be cautious! Remember your task—to secure the Stone. Slay the She-elf before she has the chance to destroy it! You have the means to shoot her unaware. Kill her now, for the casket is open and she may attempt to destroy the Stone if you rush into the chamber and attack. Remember your task.
“That is your task, Great Lord. Mine is somewhat different,” said Gorgon. “Do not interfere with this encounter now, for I will not brook it. Calm yourself. The Stone of Léir is not in peril.”
Why say you so? growled Kotos. I have sensed a change in your attitude toward the Stone for some time now. What do you know about it?
“You’ll see,” said Gorgon as he stepped forward into the chamber. He had donned the amulet and now appeared as Orrion High-elven, bearing an ugly sneer on his otherwise handsome face. Galador and Nelwyn prepared to draw their bows on him from the shadows.
“At last we come to reckoning, Gaelen Taldin,” said Orrion. “It has been long since I laid eyes upon you. These journeys have not been kind to you, have they? You have aged, and you are weaker than when last we met.”
“I routed you when last we met,” said Gaelen with a cold smile. “Or, have you forgotten? Of course, I’m not counting all the times I met you when you were pretending to be someone else. The last time I met you as Gorgon, you were vanquished. Don’t speak to me of weakness, Elfhunter. I see you brought your master along—you haven’t the courage to face me alone! A good thing, as you will have need of him.”
She looked into the amulet that hung from Orrion’s neck. “We have known of Lord Kotos for quite a long while. He is not nearly as adept at deception as he believes himself to be. It will come as no surprise, then, when I destroy the Stone?”
“It will not,” said Orrion, to the horror of Lord Kotos, who realized that he, the Great Deceiver, had been deceived…and Gorgon had known of it! Kotos attempted then to enter Gorgon’s mind, to take control of him, but Gorgon had expected this and would not let him in.
Gaelen set her long knife down, and took up the small axe, placing it upon the Stone. “This truly was a fine replica,” she said. “It’s a pity to break it. Yet I’m sure we’ve all realized by now that Lord Kotos’ errand has been in vain. If not, we will in a moment.” She struck the crystal with the hardened steel, and it shattered. There was no effect whatsoever other tha
n a few flying shards. Gaelen smiled a dark, sardonic smile. “Now, that wasn’t quite the catastrophe we all expected, was it?”
Kotos was dumbfounded, then enraged. He railed within the amulet, cursing Gaelen, Gorgon, and everyone else involved. Yet he had to calm himself, for he could not yet afford to sever ties with Gorgon, lest he find himself abandoned in this frozen place. It would be a long time indeed before he would be visited by a friendly raven in this deep hole. There would be time later for punishment.
Gaelen had laid the axe aside and now picked up her long knife again. “Well, aren’t you going to attack me now?” she said. “I have laid the axe down…you no doubt have bad memories of Wood-elves with axes in their hands, don’t you? We don’t smell of oranges any more, do we? Try to take me if you dare, you half-rotten, freakish pile of filth! Of course, I forgot—you move now only at the bidding of your master.”
“It will be my pleasure,” said Orrion, who lowered his visor, brandished Turantil in his right hand, and rushed at her.
At this, Rogond leaped forward. He swung his broadsword at Orrion, placing a rather large dent in the golden armor. Gaelen cast her long knife at her foe, but he moved too quickly and it did not find its intended mark. She met his blade with her own, snarling at the sight of Turantil. Nelwyn took aim, but Rogond’s movements were unpredictable and she was afraid of wounding him. Galador, however, had a clear shot, and he took it.
Alas, the heavy arrows were unfamiliar, and the first shot veered off to the right. Galador cursed himself for his failure to compensate. He had only two arrows left, and he drew the second, but his opportunity had passed. Gaelen and Rogond fought hard, but even together they were outmatched.
Fima rushed into the fray, bearing his battle-axe. He swung at Gorgon twice, further denting the heavy armor. Then he hauled back and swung with all his strength, giving a loud cry of effort.