by Markus Heitz
Two further elves appeared at the cell door, raising their weapons.
You won’t get me. He stepped to the side and plunged down off the platform to land on the one immediately below.
Somersaulting, he rolled back in through the open cage doors of the dragon cell below, drawing his sword and the short metal stave as he did so.
He came to a stop and looked up to find he was face to face with a dragon.
Virssagòn hit the creature on the nose with the iron stave so that the creature’s teeth missed him by inches, snapping on air. He ran behind the dragon to be confronted by the two elves from the room above. He plunged his sword into the first of the two riders and broke off the lance that had been thrust at him. Then he hurled the stave at the second elf, hitting it between the eyes. The enemy dropped unconscious to the floor. Virssagòn pulled his sword out of the first elf’s torso, avoiding the jet of blood that spurted in its wake. The elf would inevitably bleed to death. The carnage had taken but a moment.
“I give you your freedom!” he yelled at the dragon. Then, before it could turn, Virssagòn snatched up the broken lance end and rammed it into the creature’s skull from behind. The scaled monster perished with a loud screech.
Virssagòn heard the rattle of armor. More of the enemy confronted him. They have come after me, but the cowards are using that ramp instead of leaping out like I did.
He slit the unconscious elf’s throat with his sword and, taking his iron stave, launched himself off of the edge of the cave to land on the stone jetty below.
As he fell he caught sight of the battlefield.
The barbarians had not advanced more than a few hundred paces toward the mountain entrance and the snow at their feet was red. The army was in disarray and many were running to save themselves. This only made them easier targets for the diving dragons and the elf bowmen’s arrows.
A textbook massacre. Virssagòn was unmoved by the fate of the slaughtered barbarians, but he was annoyed at the waste it represented: he had wanted the barbarians to at least get to the gate in order to provide a distraction.
When he landed he found himself in front of a large iron grid in the rock.
Now what? There were no further platforms right or left he could jump to and on the one above him he could already see elf faces peering over the edge. They could see, looking down, that he was cornered.
Can I hide inside a crack in the rock? Virssagòn looked at the rough surface of the mountain. The rock crumbled away as he put his hand out to it. He recalled his initial fall by the gate and was in no hurry to repeat the experience from the height he was currently at.
A first spear landed close, splintering on the stone, and two arrows hit his armor, ricocheting harmlessly off the metal: a tribute to its robust construction.
One of them will hit me on the head soon, no matter how ineffective their training. He slipped back to the entrance, hoping the crew would open the gate to grab at him. Otherwise he was going to get shot; that much was clear. He deflected another arrow with his raised sword.
A dark shadow surged down from the sky with a furious screech and skimmed the platform the elves were standing on. Screaming, they plunged over the edge and bounced down the rough rock of the mountainside. The flesh was ripped from their bones.
The liberated dragon that had saved him then returned in an elegant swoop and landed on the newly empty stone jetty, folding its wings.
Does it want to get inside again? Virssagòn could hardly believe his eyes. All the released dragons had gathered on the stone platforms facing the direction of their cells—but then, as if in response to a silent command, they simultaneously spewed their fiery breath through the grating into the mountain’s interior.
Flames shot out of the guardroom windows and propelled burning elves to the exterior.
Virssagòn hoped the cells he was currently standing in front of would stay shut. What unpredictable, changeable beasts these dragons are. He glanced down at the battlefield again. The barbarian army lay routed and the elf-riders were completing their final circuits.
Virssagòn was suddenly aware of his misunderstanding. Of course! That’s it! Hunger motivated the creatures I released. They were in need of sustenance and now they have returned to wreak vengeance on their tormentors!
The dragons disappeared into their cells. The low rushing sound that accompanied the flames gushing from their nostrils was slightly muffled now. Fire and smoke were disgorged at various places through apertures in the mountainside as the conflagration inside the mountain spread.
Virssagòn laughed out loud. So the barbarians did serve a purpose in the end! Without them, the dragons would have been too weak to take their revenge. He sat down on the jetty to watch events as they happened.
The dragons the elves were piloting also rebelled abruptly and executed hair-raising aerial stunts to throw off their saddles. Some purposefully crashed landed, together with their crew. Virssagòn saw some larger specimens carrying four elf-warriors hurtling intentionally toward the cliff-face. The dragons had begun to revolt.
He heard loud hissing coming from the gate behind him. A wave of heat hit him. It felt as if the stone was blazing with invisible fire.
Virssagòn sprang to his feet as the gate slowly opened. Bars broke away from the grating and there was a fearful noise: the dragon that the elves had imprisoned behind the bars had broken free and activated the opening mechanism.
The dragon is unlikely to make an exception for me. He took the spear he was still holding and snapped off the shaft so that he could use the blade like a knife, then he drew out his dagger and climbed out sideways from the narrow platform, hoping to evade the dragon’s sightline. He rammed the metal blades into the slim gaps in the rock to give himself a hold.
Virssagòn gradually worked his way down until he was hanging diagonally underneath the jetty. He was very keen that the beast should not spot him.
A roar sounded above his head. The platform shook.
There was a clatter when the clawed feet landed and then a mighty white dragon leaped off the jetty, unfolding its wings and floating with a howl of hunger toward the last humans, who were desperately trying to escape across the snow.
That was a good move, getting out of the beast’s way. Virssagòn watched the scaly creature land in the middle of the band of humans and attack them with its claws, striking them dead with its tail before devouring them. The elves have been arrogant enough to keep the dragons as if they were normal animals, thinking to control them by means of keeping them hungry and inflicting pain.
The white dragon’s body measured fifteen paces, plus a long tail and a long neck. Once the wings were unfurled it would never have fit through the vast gates. Virssagòn was fascinated by the animal’s grace in flight and in killing, despite its gigantic proportions.
By now there were no more elves in the air. The dragons they had been riding were either dead on the valley floor or smashed to smithereens on the side of the mountain, surrounded by the mangled bodies of their riders. The only dragons still in flight were the ones recently liberated by Virssagòn.
Virssagòn had found a good spot where he could use his feet to help keep his balance, thus relieving the strain on his arms. He was waiting to see what the white dragon would do next.
The beast had finished its meal and flapped its broad wings, whirling up clouds of snow. Suddenly it shot out of the white cloud of flakes, giving a baleful cry that the other dragons joined in with. Its muzzle and the pale chitin plates on the underside, throat, tail and feet were all covered in barbarian blood.
An impressive sight! Virssagòn felt reluctant respect for these enormous creatures. He would never be able to defend himself against them, he realized. To stay safe, he swirled darkness around himself in his niche under the narrow platform.
The white monster landed on the ground at the gateway and spat bright fire against the golden patterns carved on the gateway. At the first round of flames the relief started to m
elt and at the second, the metal cladding liquefied completely. The dragon pushed through the ruins of the gate and poked his head into the mountain’s interior.
Virssagòn could only guess what was happening, but when another muffled rushing noise was heard, and blazing jets of fire shot out of the lower part of the mountain, hurling ash into the open, he was certain he knew. The white animal, supposedly created by Sitalia as brother to the elves, was employing his lethal fire-breath time and again.
A number of elves opted to jump out of the windows in panic or they plunged out in flames, dying when they hit the ground. The smaller dragons spat fire through the upper levels, creating such heat that normal breathing was impossible without scalding the lungs. Virssagòn could see from the flickering light that flames were shooting out of the opening in the rock above him.
Exactly how long the dragons gave vent to their hatred it was impossible to say, but eventually the white dragon withdrew. It licked its snout, let out an ear-splitting roar and flapped its wings powerfully, rising from the midst of a glittering cloud. It made off toward the south and the smaller of the species followed it into the distance.
That was my masterpiece. Virssagòn climbed back up onto the stone ledge, only to be soaked by a veritable cascade of meltwater.
The whole mountain was steaming and its covering of snow was melting.
It’ll be some time before it’s safe for me to go inside the mountain. He looked down. I have no alternative but to climb down the cliff face.
It was a tough decision for Virssagòn to have to make, but in the end he took off his precious armor, leaving it in relative safety by the entrance, which was still emitting an incredible temperature and the odd cloud of ash. I’ll come back for it as soon as I can.
He clambered down nimbly and without the encumbrance of the heavy armor.
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris,
4371st and 4372nd divisions of unendingness (5199th/5200th solar cycles),
winter.
Jiggon fell down the slope, rubbing his skin raw. Where the blazes is the water?
He grabbed at a thick root and halted his fall. Clods of earth and some gravel rolled past him to splash into water far below. So the river was still there, but for some strange reason there was a lot less of it than there should have been.
As his eyes got used to the darkness, Jiggon assessed his whereabouts.
He was hanging a couple of paces above swift-flowing waters, which looked more like a mountain torrent than the placid defense moat he was used to. A waterfall he could just see roared into the darkness. What have the dorón ashont done? Have they drained the moat? But what on earth for? All that effort instead of using rafts to cross it?
Jiggon knew how to swim, but he did not let go of the root he was clinging to. A vague feeling of unease warned him it might be better not to dive into the flood. He did not know where the racing waters might take him.
I wonder if the black-eyes are still watching? He pushed against the bank of the river with his toes, looking for some solid support. Slowly but surely he made his way back up and found a jutting ledge he could grab hold of.
When he arrived under the shelf he listened carefully before heaving himself up over the edge, his arm muscles protesting at every movement. He would not have been able to hang on much longer.
The quiet immediately struck him.
He could hear nothing but the wind, and could see snowflakes and ash falling, uninterrupted to the ground; some got in his eyes. He rubbed them. The ash stung and made his eyes water.
Dead dorón ashont lay strewn across the battlefield, as did älfar warriors, night-mares and humans. The last remaining tents in the Ownerless Army’s camp were still burning. The battle had been fought and lost.
With streaming eyes he looked again.
Where are they all? Jiggon was alone.
There were no älfar stalking the field, and there were no live dorón ashont as far as he could see. No humans seemed to have survived: the Army of the Ownerless had been wiped out—with the exception of himself.
The wind turned and he was enveloped in smoke from the burning camp. The smell of singed corpses made him sick to his stomach and he vomited.
He had not the remotest idea what would become of him, nor what he ought to do. He did not even pray; the sight of all of those dead bodies had removed his faith in the gods. They had not intervened. No deity had stood with them.
All in vain. He pictured the faces of his family and of his comrades in arms. He recalled what Khalomein had said shortly before the battle and had a sudden insight.
Jiggon turned his head and looked toward Ishím Voróo. That’s where my future lies, not here. I’ll never be a slave again.
He dragged the armor off a dead älf, took his weapons and went off in search of a safe path.
CHAPTER XXIV
Hear what victories they won, the Heroes of Tark Draan!
For most, the time of endingness was still far off, and many would go on to achieve true fame.
But Dsôn Faïmon was never to recover from the damage inflicted by the dorón ashont.
And so the Inextinguishables had to come to a decision that was to ensure the survival of the älfar but that brought pain to all.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, Gwandalur,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
Carmondai had left before first light, heading in the direction of the mountain where the elves lived with the dragon. He torched the village he had stayed in overnight, hoping that the warming-tower would also be destroyed.
After a few miles he came across a dragon lying dead in the snow; in its claws it held the remains of a half-consumed elf—the same elf he had fought in the woods. The poison that had done for its master had eventually caused the dragon’s own demise. It probably hated the elves, then. That’s a relief. I was afraid that it would come back and get me.
As the daystar rose in the sky, he saw the mountain not far away—and an army advancing toward it.
Must be Virssagòn’s barbarians. Damn! I’ll be too late. Carmondai was about to spur his night-mare on when he saw dragons flying out from the mountain and swooping down on the warriors.
He brought his steed to a halt. Too dangerous. He rode over to the shelter of a tree to observe what was happening. So many impressions were crying out to be recorded. So much needed sketching!
He was obviously witnessing a rebellion. Some of the dragons, led by a particularly impressive dragon with white scales, had turned on their masters and were attacking the elves’ mountain. Carmondai was transfixed by the image of the steaming rock, the inside alive with red and orange tongues of dragon-breath. He was inspired by everything he beheld.
Finally the dragons took off one by one and flew south, completing a circuit overhead, as if to show off to the artist.
Carmondai sighed with relief as they flew on. Not an enemy I’d have wanted to take on. He stowed away his drawing equipment, mounted his night-mare and galloped toward the mountain, where the fires still burned.
As he rode, the flames began to recede and the smoke got thinner, giving way to the steam vapor rising off the slopes.
Even if Carmondai preferred to write about events he had actually witnessed, he was enormously glad that he had not accompanied Virssagòn on this particular outing.
I hope he has not met endingness. His death would make for good reading in my epic, of course, but it would sadden me and it’s not what he deserves.
Carmondai passed through the area where the Ishím Voróo barbarians had been mown down by the dragons. Snow stained red from human lifeblood spurted up as he galloped through, kicked into the air by the night-mare’s hooves. He was forced to reduce his speed as he rode throu
gh the despoiled corpses.
At last he reached the entrance.
A gateway stood empty and unguarded, the walls within black with soot.
Carmondai could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the golden lake that had solidified in front of the entrance. The white dragon’s claw prints were clearly visible in the hardened gold.
None of the elves will have survived that inferno. Nothing can live through heat that melts gold.
“Late!” He heard Virssagòn’s voice to the right. “What kept you, Carmondai?”
“I was here in time for my purposes. I doubt I’d have survived if I’d come any earlier,” he replied with a laugh. “What an inferno! How come you’ve not got your armor on?”
“It was easier for the descent. I was there.” He pointed to the fourth platform up. “The only thing for it was to climb down the cliff. It was a little too hot for me to come through the inside.” He gave an answering laugh. “Did the battle look good from where you were?”
“My paintings will celebrate your glorious deed,” Carmondai promised. But then he wanted more information: “Tell me, was everything part of your grand plan, or did it just happen?”
Virssagòn grinned. “I’d call it a plan that just happened, but it’s the final result that matters.” He came over. “Can you give me a lift? My night-mare ought to be somewhere over there if the elves haven’t killed it. We can’t get inside the mountain anyway. It’ll probably need about forty divisions of unendingness before the rock has cooled sufficiently for me to go back and retrieve my armor. But I want to tell the nostàroi what I have achieved. Then I’ll come back with a unit of mounted spear-carriers and make sure there are no elves skulking in a crevice somewhere.”
“Of course.” Carmondai hauled him up on to the saddle and they rode back the way he had come. “How many dragons are dead?”
“I don’t know, but it must be at least half a dozen. And I have no idea how many elves I’ve killed. It’s a shame. It would make an impressive story for your epic.”