All that summer and autumn, Ilgra labored to dam up the ravine at the point where the stone walls stood closest: a pinched gap no wider than twice the full span of her arms. Though her leg was not fit for fighting, she was Anointed and, like all Anointed, strong. She toiled mightily, and by dint of her efforts, filled the gap with boulders carried from high on the mountain’s side.
As each boulder dropped into place, Ilgra bound it with weirding to the rocks below, welding them one to another so they formed a single, solid whole. And when the final piece was placed, she returned the overspill to its normal course, and the water began to gather behind the stone blockade.
Yet the feed of water was slight; it would take many months to fill the apportioned ravine. In the meantime, the bed of the stream lay dry below, a pebbled snake now grey and dead.
When the Skgaro noticed her labors, they questioned her. Ilgra merely claimed that she wanted to make a larger pool for swimming, and the clan did not see fit to challenge her word, ascribing her actions to the expected eccentricities of a shaman.
But while her explanation satisfied the rest of the clan, it did not satisfy her mother, who said, “You never do anything without purpose, Ilgra-daughter. Tell me truly, what is it you want?”
Then it was Ilgra’s loneliness proved her undoing. A moment of weakness overcame her—a desire for much-missed closeness with those she loved—and in that moment of weakness, she confessed her secret desire.
The confession greatly angered her mother, and she said, “This is why you have kept yourself apart, Ilgra-daughter? It is head-sickness. It is dogbite fever. The dragon cannot be killed. If ever he leaves, it will be of his own choice, and not because of anything we have done.”
To which Ilgra said, “That I cannot accept. I will either kill Vêrmund, or he will kill me. No other outcome is possible.”
Her mother gnashed her teeth. “Why must you be so troublesome? Some things there are we cannot change. There is no glory in fighting the inevitable. Do you not understand?”
“I understand that the worm killed my father, who was your bloodmate! You would leave him and the rest of our clanmates unavenged. Well not I!”
Then Ilgra’s mother locked horns with her, though the difference in their height was so great as to make Ilgra bend nearly in half. “I honored my mate, and I cared for our children,” said her mother, a growl in her voice. “There was no glory in getting myself slain that you might grow up alone in the world.”
At that, understanding broke Ilgra’s anger, and she bared her throat. “You are right. I meant no disrespect.”
Her mother lifted her horns as well. A softness entered her expression. “You are a good daughter to me, Ilgra, and a good sister to Yhana. But please, give up this fruitless quest. It will bring you nothing but sorrow.”
“I cannot.”
“You are determined? You will spend your life in this manner, despite my counsel?”
“I am.”
And her mother sighed. “Then I must give you my blessing in the hope it may prove a shield against misfortune.” And she did so, and they embraced, and Ilgra felt her eyes fill with tears.
Early next morning, Ilgra came out of her hut to find Yhana standing upon the side of the ravine, staring at Ilgra’s handiwork below.
Said her sister, “You still mean to avenge our father.” It was not a question.
To which Ilgra said, “Yes.”
Then Yhana looked at her with fierce eyes. “Good. Were I as strong as you, I would do likewise. You are Anointed, but I am not. You know the ways of weirding, but I do not. And you have no fear, Ilgra-sister. I wish the same were true for me.”
“I do fear,” said Ilgra. “But it does not stop me.” Then she wrapped Yhana in her arms, and it comforted Ilgra to know her sister supported her and shared her desire to stop Vêrmund.
Her family said nothing to the rest of the Skgaro of Ilgra’s intent, and for that Ilgra was grateful. But thereafter, she felt more alone than ever, for the weight of Yhana’s expectations added to her own, and the voice of the wind seemed to acquire a mocking tone.
While she waited for the ravine to fill, she focused her energies on her duties as shaman to the Skgaro. Mainly this involved helping with births, healing what hurts she could, and setting spells upon various tools as a guard against breakage or other mishap. A shaman’s responsibilities were of a more tangible sort than those of the Herndall—who, along with leading the clan, oversaw the mysteries of auguries and portents, as well as all matters pertaining to the gods. It was for the best. Despite her use of weirding, Ilgra preferred to deal with things that she could touch. Things that were real.
The Horned she assisted often gave her gifts in return; the saving of a life was no small thing, after all. By such means, Ilgra soon acquired a small herd of sheep and goats (and one disgruntled bristle-back boar). She penned the animals within the ravine and fed them each day with fodder kept dry beneath a stand of layered branches. Also, about the pen she hung woven charms, so as to fend off the beasts of the mountains.
Thus it was she baited her trap.
The filling of the ravine went far slower than Ilgra expected. It worried her, for winter was nigh, and at least once each winter, Vêrmund would descend for a smallish meal of whatever livestock he could catch. If the gorge was only partially full by the time he came to eat, the wash of water would be insufficient to subdue the mighty worm, and she would have to wait through the winter, until the worm’s next feeding.
Faced with that unpleasant prospect, Ilgra decided to take drastic measures. She went to the spring-fed pool above the ravine and, by the strength of her limbs, dug a channel through the full height of the bank, that the pool might drain unhindered into the ravine below. The water was less than she needed, but with its addition, she had hope the reservoir might fill in time.
If Vêrmund the Grim noticed her work, Ilgra knew he would never be so foolish as to enter the ravine. He was a canny old worm and wary of ambush. Fortunately, the steep-sided flanks of Kulkaras hid the pool from the dragon’s burning eyes, and Ilgra felt confident of catching him unawares.
Otherwise, her plans would end in fire.
* * *
Three moons passed before the stream finally filled the dam, tumbled over the cracked and weathered lip, and continued along its ancestral bed. Winter had settled upon the valley during the third moon, and shingles of broken ice covered the newly formed pool, now dark with shadowed depths. The ice pleased Ilgra; it made the trap that much more dangerous. To further increase the damage the water might cause upon release, she rolled windfell trees atop the ice, until a thicket of brittle branches adorned the frozen pool.
Thereafter, all that was left was to wait for Vêrmund to bestir himself. It would not be long, she thought, before hunger woke the worm from his evil sleep.
In those days, Ilgra kept to her hut, insisting that the Skgaro come to her whenever possible, lest she find herself too far afield when Vêrmund finally came thundering down. It was a selfish insistence, and her mother disapproved, but her clanmates never complained, again accepting Ilgra’s demand as normal of a shaman. For that, she felt ashamed. But shame could not sway her from her course.
Long hours she spent in isolation, sitting and brooding while she turned her mind to the twisting of words. With each night that passed, she felt more withdrawn, as if she were fading from the world, becoming a wraith haunting the dark pinewood forest.
She thought much of her father during those days. Of how in winter he sat by the hearth and wove the thulqna, the patterned straps by which the Horned display the crest of their clan and also the lineage of their families, with all the notable deeds ascribed to their ancestors. Of how he carved figures of deer and goats and foxes for her and Yhana to play with. Of how safe she had felt beside him, so large and strong was he.
Then too Ilgra recalled an evening when she was hardly more than a babe, and her father had returned from the hunt with a doe draped over his shoulder. The eyes of the deer had been so round and soft they had troubled Ilgra, and she had been greatly saddened by the sight. But her father knelt beside her, and he said, “Do not be upset, Ilgra-daughter. There is nothing to fear. This is the way of things. Today we feed upon the deer that we may live. In time, our bodies will feed the grass and trees that other deer may live. So it goes.”
Ilgra had once found the thought comforting. No more, though. Her mind rebelled against the truth of what her father said, insisted that there must be another, better way.
Just because something was did not mean it should always be.
* * *
The winter solstice marked a break in her self-imposed exile. It was a time of celebration for the Skgaro as they said a welcome farewell to the shortest day of the year. In the village there was much music and feasting to be had and feats of strength also, cheered on by the whole of the clan.
Ilgra waited out the first part of the festivities in her hut, waited until the light began to fade from the sky and she felt certain Vêrmund was not about to fly down. Never yet had he attacked during night, and she doubted his habit was about to change. Regardless, leaving her post by the ravine was worth the risk. She felt in sore need of company; the sounds of song drifting from the village put a pang in her heart.
A layer of heavy clouds hung over the valley, and from them fell soft flakes of snow, large and slow. In the muffled solitude, Ilgra trudged from her hut to the village and thence to her family hall. Along the way, she heard the baying of hungry wolves echoing through the forest. Had she not her staff, Ilgra would have feared for her life.
She spent the evening with her mother and Yhana, cooking and talking and enjoying the pleasure of their closeness. Later still, they played games and lamented the length of winter, while outside the flurries of snow thickened into a blinding wall, driven before the relentless, ice-cut wind.
Then a shriek pierced the storm-wrapped night, a shriek such as Ilgra had never heard before. At the sound of it, her heart clenched and her bones grew cold and every bristle on her nape prickled and stood on end. For a moment, she could neither move nor breathe, and only when her heart finally jolted back to life was she able to properly react.
“What was that?” whispered her mother.
And Ilgra knew not. Nothing in Qarzhad’s teaching had spoken of such a thing. Another shriek, louder than before, split the wind, and Ilgra shivered from head to toe. She grabbed Gorgoth and sprang to her feet.
Before she could take a step, a great black beak stabbed through the roof and struck the hearth fire, spraying sparks and coals in every direction. Again and again the beak struck, snapping and swiping, while a purple tongue lashed with frenzied anger between the two halves.
Ilgra shouted and smote the beak upon the side and spoke a word of weirding: garjzla, or light.
A ruddy flash blinded her, and with a deafening screech, the beak withdrew. Then the hall shuddered, and two sets of huge, hooked claws began to rip at the roof, pulling the timbered beams apart. Blasts of swirling snow poured in through the rents.
“Run!” shouted Ilgra to her mother and sister, and together they fled the hall.
Outside, in the cold and the dark, Ilgra heard more shrieks, and as her blood curdled in her veins, she saw squatting atop the peak of their hall a firelit monstrosity. The creature was grey and hairless and lean as a starveling. Bat wings hung from its shoulders, and at the end of its ropy neck was a gaunt and narrow skull set with a pair of enormous black eyes—bulging and devoid of white—and then the long dagger of its beak. Across the village, tattered sheets of snow parted to reveal a second monster prowling between the buildings, pecking at the Horned as they ran, crimson streaks of gore banding its beak.
The creatures reminded Ilgra not of any beast of earth or sky, but rather of beings from ancient legend: the loathsome Nrech. Killers of Svarvok’s infant sons. Eaters of Horned. Foul shadows that stalked the land of the dead, picking clean the bones of dishonored warriors.
Terror poisoned her thoughts.
As if in response, the near creature turned its head and darted snake-like toward Ilgra and her family. They ran, and for a brief while, the storm hid them. Ilgra heard Arvog and Moqtar and Razhag and the rest of the warriors shouting as they strove to fight the Nrech. Through gaps in the snow, she glimpsed the defenders gathered by torchlight, holding spears pointed toward the oncoming monstrosities. But the creatures were too big and too fast; they towered over even the Anointed, and their beaks were like those of cranes—quick and deadly as they jabbed through the clotted air.
Ilgra raised her staff then and set forth to work what magic she could. But her weirding had no power over the Nrech; they were somehow shielded against her words, and all her attacks went awry. Nor could she blind or bind or otherwise slow them.
Ahead of her, she saw Elgha speared by one of the Nrech, speared and eaten, the starveling consuming the Herndall with two gulping motions. Razhag ran forth and was knocked aside, with bloody wounds torn across his arms.
The familiar heaviness of despair weighed upon Ilgra’s heart. There was no stopping the Nrech. She looked to Kulkaras, hidden within the baffling smear of the blizzard, and for the first and only time, Ilgra wished for the help of Vêrmund the Grim. And she wondered why the miserable old worm hadn’t risen in protest, as he had once before.
The wind grew stronger until it moaned with dire voice through her horns, and Ilgra realized; the storm had dampened the sounds of the attack, hid the clamor of fear and death within its folds. The dragon could not have heard upon his lofty perch.
Ilgra knew then what must be done, though the thought replaced her despair with shriveling fear.
With both her hands, she planted Gorgoth upright in the snow, and she spoke a word of weirding to the wind, and for a span, the air grew clear and still. Then, from her knotted belt, Ilgra took her father’s horn, and she sounded it with all her hope and might, and the brazen call rang forth throughout the valley.
Twice more Ilgra blew upon the horn. Then one of the Nrech came crawling toward her, and she allowed the snow to close in around her once again.
Yet still no response returned from the crown of Kulkaras. No hint of Vêrmund stirring. No hope of calamitous rescue. This time the dragon’s indifference would be the death of them.
Believing her gambit had failed, Ilgra found her family and started with them toward a burrow where they might hide.
And then…she heard the sound of their destroyer, and for once she was glad. She heard the rumble of Vêrmund’s wrath, and the air convulsed with a jarring thud, and a blast of wind from the dragon’s wings swept aside the falling snow in whorls and pennants and twisting braids.
In the darkness cleared, the Nrech crouched, shrieking with eager hate. They leaped to flight and climbed with startling speed toward the bulky, firelit mass of Vêrmund descending from above.
“Go,” Ilgra said, pushing her mother and sister toward the burrow. But she herself stayed; not even the threat of death could tear her away.
Vêrmund roared and seared the night sky with flames. Quick as sparrows, the Nrech swooped away and flew around either side of the dragon and began to peck and claw at his back. The worm bellowed in pain, tucked in his wings, and dove to ground in a meadow near the village. The creatures followed, harrying him closely, nipping and biting and tearing at his wings.
Ilgra rose from hiding and started to run toward her hut by the dam. The villagers had fled their halls, and from the cover of the forest, Arvog hailed her, motioned for her to join him.
Instead, she lowered her head as if to ram her foes and increased her speed.
Behind her, Vêrmund continued to bellow with pain and anger, cries Ilgra ha
d long wished to hear of him but that now only filled her with dread. She glanced from the dark path before her, checking the positions of the nightmares fighting.
The Nrech were faster than the old worm, and they seemed accustomed to contending with dragons, for they knew when to dodge his fire and how also to avoid his teeth, talons, and tail. Vêrmund snapped and snarled as he tried to lure them within range of his deadly claws, but the grey creatures were too smart and stayed at a safe distance, moving in only when the dragon’s back was turned.
The three giants battled across the fields, and the mountains rang with the clamor, a horrendous sound. Gouts of liquid flame sprayed the landscape, and along the edges of the forest, the tips of branches caught fire—makeshift torches bright enough to illuminate the whole of the valley, though they sputtered beneath their load of snow.
Vêrmund slammed his tail into the ground, and so great was the impact, it shook Ilgra off her feet, sent her tumbling forward onto her face. The crusted snow cut her brow, and she grunted as the air rushed from her lungs. Hot blood poured over her eyes, blinding her. She shook her head, sprang back up, and continued running.
The Nrech were ripping bleeding chunks from Vêrmund’s scaled length; his natural armor provided little protection against their beaks. His roars acquired a desperate edge, a wounded bull faced with a pair of red-toothed mountain cats, savage and merciless.
And still Ilgra ran. Her once-broken leg lacked strength. Her breath burned in her throat. She could barely see the path rising before her and, beside it, the dark crevice of the ravine.
A blob of fluttering fire arced past, and she ducked out of instinct. The fire splashed against a nearby rock, a welcome light upon the glittering snow.
Below, in the depths of the gorge, her small flock yammered with terror. She heard the pen give way before their panicked efforts, and then the animals fled the confines of the ravine, bleating all the while. She did not mind. Bait they had been, but now they might perhaps survive.
The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm Page 11