Myrsa dropped through first, landing on the blocks as surefootedly as a mountain goat. Ironwood steadied her as she reached up and caught Stunbog, who was lowered by Badar. Then the two of them cleared off the platform as the young barbarian dropped through.
“I am very curious to learn how you accomplished this,” Stunbog said, brushing rock dust from his robe.
“No time for that,” Nistur said, loosening his sword in its sheath. “There is something called a behir on its way toward us. It is rumored to be formidable.”
Badar blinked, his face registering a strange mixture of elation and panic. “What is this place?”
Shellring rushed to his side. “We’re in a dwarf cave. Don’t worry; there’s a way out. But we have a bigger worry just now.”
“You think I am afraid?” Badar said. “I fear no beast! I just need a weapon.”
Nistur smiled fondly. “There speaks the confidence of youth.”
“Come on!” Ironwood shouted. His sword was already out. “Let’s be away from here!”
Hotforge was already in the lead, and they followed him along the dimly lit tunnel toward the banqueting hall. The former prisoners had no trouble coping with the fungus light, for their cell had been even dimmer. At the mouth of the tunnel, Hotforge paused and peered out into the great hall.
“No sign of it yet,” he muttered. “It’s a long dash to the doorway, but if we make it they’ll raise the portcullis and we may be through before it—”
Abruptly, something surged through a side door, flowing liquidly into the banqueting hall, taking some stone from the sides and lintel of the door as it entered. With most of its length through the door, they could see that, reptilian though the thing was, it was not a true serpent. It moved on multiple pairs of short legs, and these propelled its forty-foot length with amazing swiftness. Its long neck swayed from side to side, the bulging, slit-pupiled eyes in the crocodilian head searching the great room for prey. Long, slender spines swept back from the head along its neck, rising and falling with each breath.
The threatened company drew slowly back within the tunnel. By now all except Stunbog were equipped with weapons of a sort. Badar and Hotforge gripped sledgehammers. Shellring and Myrsa held iron pry bars. These were about six feet in length, one end flattened and slightly curved, the other pointed.
“Can the beast hear us?” Nistur whispered.
“Not if we talk low,” Hotforge answered.
“Then if anyone has any ideas,” Nistur said, “now is the time to share them. I confess that I am at a loss.”
“You said this on”—Hotforge jerked a thick thumb toward Ironwood—“is a great dragon-slayer!”
“It was a long time ago,” Ironwood said, “and it was a small dragon.”
“We can always go back to the cell,” Nistur said. “We’d get out of there eventually.”
“I’ll not abandon my people to fight the behir!” Hotforge said. “And I’ll not cower in a Tarsian dungeon!”
“Peace, my friends,” Stunbog counseled. “Let me assess our situation. Then perhaps we can formulate a plan.”
They crouched a few paces within the tunnel while Stunbog tiptoed toward the entrance. To all appearances, the behir had not yet spotted the tunnel. Instead it went toward the much larger main door and looked at the iron portcullis. It pushed at the iron grate, which creaked but did not move. In frustration the behir butted its head against it, but the grate did not yield.
While the creature was thus occupied, Stunbog studied it and the banqueting hall. Besides its dimensions, he took note of the iron torch sconces that jutted from the walls and the wheel-shaped bronze chandeliers that hung from the stone ceiling. The long stone tables and benches were fixed, apparently carved from solid bedrock and in one piece with the floor. As the behir began to turn, Stunbog backed within the tunnel. He beckoned to the others, and they all retreated.
“Did you learn anything of use?” Ironwood asked.
“What we have here,” Stunbog said, “is indeed a true behir. It is no dragon, but it will be just as hard to kill.”
“I was hoping for something more encouraging,” Nistur said.
“Let me finish. The behir has some magical qualities, but basically it is just a very large reptile: fierce, active when hungry, sluggish when sated, and almost brainless. Just now, it gives every evidence of being hungry.”
“It spits lightning!” Hotforge said.
“True,” Stunbog allowed, “but once having employed this formidable weapon, it will need some time to generate another bolt.”
“Excellent,” Ironwood said sourly. “We let it fry one of us, and the rest try to hack and hammer it to death.”
“Allow me to wax pedantic for a moment,” Stunbog said. “There are two types of lightning, the natural and the magical. Natural lightning is the common sort we see striking from the clouds in a thunderstorm. It is terrible and dangerous, but it is not intelligently directed unless it is used by a god. The gods have not manifested themselves in a very long time. Magical lightning is called up by a very accomplished wizard, or employed by a creature with magical qualities, such as the one who waits hungrily without. Both sorts of lightning have a strong affinity for earth, and it is known that they may be drawn toward the earth by metal, and their power thus drained away.”
“You think we can neutralize its lightning?” Nistur asked.
Stunbog looked at each of them in turn. “If we use the resources we have, and if we act very quickly and very bravely, I think we can.”
“And after that, how do we kill it?” Hotforge inquired.
“As for that,” Stunbog said, “I must defer to our dragon-slayer.”
They all looked at Ironwood. For a moment his expression registered dismay; then his features hardened. “Well, let’s be about it, then. We have little time.”
For a while they crouched in a huddle, heads together, while Stunbog and Ironwood drew figures on the dust of the tunnel floor with their fingertips. When they were done, Shellring and Badar went through the tunnel and brought back more of the long pry bars. Then there was nothing more to be done by way of preparation.
Having made up his mind, Ironwood showed no hesitation. “Let’s go!” He led the way, gripping one of the steel bars in both hands. Shellring now held his sword, ready to hand it to him or use it herself in direst extremity. None of them had much faith in the efficacy of swords against the beast’s armored hide.
As they rushed from the tunnel, the behir, sensing the movement, whirled with startling speed on its numerous legs. The snakelike tail whipped about, snapping against the walls as the head raised on its long neck for a better view. From chandelier level, it looked down, the head turning from side to side, spines laid flat against its neck, as it brought the gaze of first one slit-pupiled eye, then the other, against each foe in turn. All were about equally distant and equally active. The terrible beast seemed to suffer from the primitive-brained reptilian problem of making a selection.
Ironwood, Myrsa, Badar, and Nistur, each holding a pry bar, rushed to four of the torch sconces. Shellring capered about, waving the curved sword to provide distraction. Hotforge brandished his hammer and yelled instructions at the young dwarves beyond the portcullis. These immediately began to leap about and hoot derision at the beast. Stunbog had stressed that the iron grate would quickly and safely ground the lightning bolt.
But the behir was interested only in the maddening, tempting creatures in the room with it. And it was hungry. Robbed of any other criterion for judgment, its attention centered on what looked like the most satisfying meal. Ignoring the others, its head swayed back and forth between Ironwood and Myrsa. The two cursed at it imaginatively, gripping their bars against the sconces behind them, gritting their teeth against the terror to come.
Myrsa went silent and pale as the great head, three times the length of a horse’s, stilled. The huge yellow eyes, side-mounted though they were, swiveled and fixed on her with a stare only slight
ly less horrifying than that of a basilisk. She held the bar in a white-knuckled grip, wedging its butt into a gap in the strap-iron bars of the sconce behind her. She knew that when she released the bar, it would remain wedged only a fraction of a second before falling to the floor. Her life hung on that instant.
The behir’s long, narrow lower jaw dropped open, revealing serried, sharklike teeth and a quivering, three-forked tongue. The slender spines shot erect to form a semicircular fan behind the crocodilian head.
“Now!” Stunbog shouted.
The word, Myrsa’s desperate lunge, the flash, and the thunderous blast all seemed to occur at once. Hotforge and the dwarves behind the portcullis all howled as the dazzling bolt assaulted their sensitive eyes. The rest were stunned for a moment, and when their vision cleared they saw that the bar and the sconce glowed dull red and were now welded firmly together. Myrsa lay ten feet away, her eyes open but whether she was dead, unconscious, or merely disoriented, it was impossible to tell.
For a long moment the behir was still, apparently stymied by this unexpected development. Then, with a shout, Badar ran to his sister, and the behir coiled itself to strike.
Ironwood turned to Nistur and grinned. “Well, my friend, here is where a hero earns his pay.” With a bellow, he gripped his pry bar in both hands and charged.
Instantly distracted, the terrible head whipped toward him. Nistur yelled and attacked, but with less enthusiasm. Shellring whirled and screamed maniacally, and even Stunbog jumped, waving his arms, his robe flapping, all dignity forgotten. Their best chance lay in keeping the creature’s nut-sized brain overloaded with stimuli.
But now that its attention was firmly fixed, it forgot all else. It wanted Ironwood. The behir’s jaws gaped once again, and its head lunged forward on the end of its long, muscular neck. With a precise lunge, Ironwood thrust the point of his bar into its tongue, skewering it to the lower jaw. With a squalling hiss, the behir’s head whipped from side to side, trying to shake both weapon and man loose, but the mercenary kept the bar clamped tight against his side and stuck fast as a burr.
Nistur lunged with his bar against the monster’s side, throwing his full weight behind the weapon, but the point rebounded from the armor plating. Then the lashing tail swept his feet from beneath him, and he landed on his back, the wind bursting from his lungs and his pry bar flying across the room to clang against a wall.
With a final shake of its head, the behir shook the bar from its mouth. Now driven by fury and hate as much as by hunger, it lunged for Ironwood again. He had managed to keep on his feet, but he was caught off-balance this time, and his point slid to one side of the jaw instead of plunging into the tongue as before. Desperately, he pushed the iron bar sideways into the mouth and gripped it with both hands. With his arms at full extension to each side of the terrible jaws, his head was two inches from them when they snapped shut.
Enraged with this unwontedly stubborn dinner, the behir raised its head until it cracked against the ceiling. Ironwood hung from the bar like an acrobat on a trapeze as the reptilian head swung back and forth and the bar bent into the semblance of an inverted U. Then something occurred to the monster’s tiny brain, and its head lowered as its body arched slightly from the floor and the foremost pair of legs reached up for its tormentor.
Badar helped Myrsa to her feet, and she shook her head, listening to his babbling as the stars cleared from her vision. She saw the forelegs close on Ironwood, their claws scraping at his tough armor, the belly of the animal now exposed. Shoving Badar aside, she ran to snatch up the pry bar that had flown from Nistur’s hand. Then, screaming a barbarian war cry, she ran to the beast and launched the weapon like a spear from a distance of ten feet. The steel bar sank half its length into the smaller, softer scales of the behir’s belly.
Following his sister’s example, Badar rushed in and hurled his own bar from close range. It sank in a hands-breadth beside hers. The monster squealed, and Ironwood dropped to the floor, his bar now bitten raggedly into two pieces. He retained his hold on the pointed end, now only three feet long.
Nistur, back on his feet with his sword out, ran up to the monster’s side and slashed with his sword. This blow having no effect, he essayed a lunge with his point, striking between the large scales. With his whole weight behind the lunge, his fine, dwarf-forged blade bent in a perfect arc, but it did not penetrate. Leaping back to avoid a lash of the tail, he cursed.
“You might as well assault a castle with a toothpick!” he cried, resheathing the blade without looking down at his scabbard. He looked around for a more effective weapon.
Despite everyone’s best efforts, the behir was fixed on Ironwood with reptilian obsession. The mercenary was back on his feet, the short, pointed bar gripped in both hands, his fury raised to a pitch equaling his enemy’s. The two were dementedly determined to kill one another.
The behir’s head raised and, with a honking bellow, it came down on Ironwood, jaws impossibly agape, enveloping the upper half of the mercenary’s body. As the others stood paralyzed in stunned disbelief, Ironwood leapt from the floor as if eager to be swallowed. The terrible jaws clamped down, the teeth biting on the armored waist, raising the man from the floor as the jaws worked sideways, grinding, trying to force this disagreeable dinner down its gullet.
“No!” Nistur cried, snatching up a sledgehammer and rushing to the beast’s side. He slammed the twenty-pound steel head against the thing’s neck, but apparently to no avail. Hotforge, whose vision had partially returned, plied his own hammer in the same fashion from the other side. Myrsa and Badar tugged their pry bars loose, then plunged them in again while Shellring took Ironwood’s sword in both hands and slashed vigorously but ineffectually at the scaly neck.
The behir, intent on swallowing its prey, ignored them all. The beast gave a final contortion of its jaws, and the armored feet disappeared within. The head rocked forward and back on its long neck with the unmistakable aspect of a bird or reptile that has swallowed something too large for it.
The others redoubled their efforts; then all were sent flying as the tail lashed around and all twelve legs shot out sideways. The neck bent into a huge S and went rigid. The eyes stared at nothing, and all movement ceased for several long seconds. Then, slowly and gracefully, the behir collapsed. The neck rolled down on the floor, and the head dropped, its long lower jaw crashing on the floor. The lidless eyes rolled upward until the slit pupils were invisible; then the yellow balls turned dull.
Slowly, unable to believe it and suspecting some sort of reptilian trick, the survivors approached the thing. “Look at that!” Shellring gasped. She pointed to a spot on the top of the behir’s head, six inches behind the eyes, from which a foot of bloody steel spike protruded.
Nistur shook his head with admiration. “It just doesn’t pay to swallow a hero.”
“It’s still alive!” Shellring cried as a muscular convulsion ran through the neck.
“Its muscles will retain a semblance of life for several hours, but it is dead.”
“It is still trying to swallow,” Nistur noted. A large lump was moving down the neck toward the body. It stopped, and a smaller bulge formed on the greater one. They gazed in wonder at this prodigy; then a rip appeared in the soft, lower side of the neck and a scale-armored arm emerged, the hand gripping a curved dagger.
“He’s still alive!” Shellring cried. She flailed at the tough neck until Myrsa took the sword gently from her hands.
“Let me have that.” The barbarian woman gripped the curved sword in both hands and raised it. Bracing one foot on the monster’s neck, she brought the keen blade down with great force and even greater precision, catching the edge of the cut Ironwood had made without touching his arm, opening a three-foot gash.
“Get him out of there!” Nistur cried. He and Badar grasped the protruding arm and tugged. Ironwood emerged from the opening, covered with blood and foul-smelling slime. Even as they watched, amazed, his dragon-scale armor was changing in
appearance. The black scales turned dark blue, then a lighter blue, the color fading until the scales were transparent. Their tips began to curl upward; then they fell away like winter leaves in a wind, revealing the mottled gray hide beneath. The hide itself began to fall away in shreds.
“He is rid of his cursed armor!” Stunbog cried. The healer stooped to pull away the ruined hide in handfuls. “The digestive acids of the behir must be powerful enough to dissolve dragon scale! It protected him just long enough to preserve his life.” Stunbog chuckled gleefully. “We may have added something new to the lore of this curious creature.”
“Interpret it thus if you will,” Nistur murmured, helping the healer clear away the wreckage of the once-magnificent armor. “I would rather call it the reward of heroism. But then, I am a poet.”
The mercenary dragged long, shuddering gulps of air into his lungs. “Am I alive?” he gasped when he had breath to spare.
Stunbog crouched beside him and made a quick examination. “Not only alive, but also not even badly injured.”
Nistur smiled and clapped Ironwood on a befouled shoulder. “And now, my friend,” he said, smiling, “can you doubt that it was really you who slew that black dragon?”
Chapter Twelve
In the dwarves’ principal living area, the combatants rested and had their various injuries tended to while they planned their next moves. All except for Stunbog suffered from minor injuries. Ironwood had been the most roughly used, as well as being in breathtaking need of a bath. While this was accomplished the dwarves laid out a minor banquet for them. Hotforge was now mightily pleased with his human friends. Because of them, his name would shine forever among his people as one who had fought a behir at close quarters.
With his healing duties finished, Stunbog stayed for some time in deep conversation with Hotforge and other dwarf elders. He wrote down for them a detailed list of the values and uses of the various bodily parts of the behir. Disposing of the huge carcass was going to be something of a feat, but he assured them that there was substantial profit to be had from selling to wizards those parts with magical properties. When this was accomplished, Nistur regaled the healer with the strange tale of Ironwood’s unfortunate early adventures, adding poetic embellishments as his gift dictated. When he was done with the story, Stunbog pondered long on these events.
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