Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “But there must be some way to kill a Drake,” Elgo persisted. “They can’t be all that powerful.”

  “Lad, ye know nought o’ that which ye speak,” exclaimed Ruric. “Drakes be monstrous beasties. Nearly beyond imagining: great wings and flames; claws hard as diamonds and long as sabers; an enormous great tail that lashes about; or be they a Cold-drake, where all is the same except the beastie’s breath doesn’t burn—instead ’tis poison vapors, and ach, spit that chars wi’out flame.”

  “Even so, there has to be something that will slay a Dragon,” declared Elgo.

  “Aye, lad”—Ruric cast his thoughts back—“Loremasters say that the greatest Dragon o’ all will be slain by the Kammerling.”

  “Kammerling?” Elyn cocked her head to the side.

  “Aye, lass,” answered Ruric, “Adon’s Hammer: The Kammerling. But mayhap it ha’ another name as well, for the Dwarves are said to call it the Rage Hammer, though why that might be, I’ve not heard. Made o’ silveron, they claim it be, perhaps e’en forged by Adon Himself. But none that I know can say where it lies, though some tell that it be wi’ the Wizards under Black Mountain in Xian, whereas others say ’twas stolen long ago by its intended victim.”

  “Intended victim? Who might that be?” Elgo’s tone was one of eagerness.

  “Why, Black Kalgalath, lad,” answered Ruric, not failing to note Elgo’s look of disappointment, “the greatest Fire-drake o’ them all, he that lives in Dragonslair, the dead firemountain along the Grimwall to the east.”

  “Firemountain?” blurted Elyn.

  “Aye, though this one be dead. Ach, perhaps not completely dead, for still there be an occasional wisp of smoke, I hear, but that is only when the earth rumbles. E’en so, I’ve heard it told that Kalgalath draws strength from the mountain itself, though how that could be is not in my ken. Perhaps a Fire-drake can somehow take sustenance from a mountain o’ fire, be it dead or no, for mayhap fire breeds fire, e’en though one be Dragon’s flame whereas the other be the flame o’ the very earth itself.

  “But be that as it may, ’tis the wise who say that Black Kalgalath be the mightiest Fire-drake living—Nay! The greatest Drake o’ all, be it Fire-drake or Cold- . . . though in the past whether ’twas he or one called Daagor, well, that be an endless claim the Loremasters will dispute fore’er among themselves, some saying the one, some the other, my own da’ not choosing ’twixt the two. Still and all, at least in this age the Kammerling seems meant for Kalgalath: his doom.”

  A stillness fell upon the three, and they sat without speaking, all reflecting upon these legends. At last Elyn broke the quiet: “What about their treasure hoards, Armsmaster? Have Men taken any?”

  “Not any that I can say,” ruminated the warrior, “though ’tis known that many ha’e died in the trying. Why, Sleeth alone ha’ slain hundreds, mostly Dwarves; but whether they were trying to win the treasure, or reclaim Blackstone, or both, I cannot say. Even so, Dragon hoards are tempting, for the great Drakes gather plunder unto themselves and sleep upon it, I am told.”

  Elgo’s eyes were wide, envisioning a vast creature upon a great glittering hoard. Then his vision narrowed, craft squinting out at Ruric. “Why didn’t they just wait until Sleeth went ahunting, and rush inside and close the gates? Or even steal away the treasure while he is gone.”

  Ruric looked aside at the wily young Prince. “Ah, my Elgo, Dragons know when strangers are about. ’Tis their magic, some deem, while others think that Drakes smell intruders, or ha’e special eyes, or ears that can hear e’en a feather fall wi’in their demesnes. As to the which o’ it, again I cannot say, but should yer plan be tried, to hide and wait for Sleeth to fly away, the great Cold-drake would but slay those who lurked nigh.

  “Too, ’tis said that the very gates of Blackstone are torn asunder—Trent e’en sang o’ it in his bard’s tale—and the Drake would return ere they could be put right.

  “Nay, lad, yer plan be canny, yet doomed to fail.”

  “What about a great armed force,” asked Elyn, “thousands of Men—could they not overpower even the mightiest of Dragons?”

  “Ah, lass, perhaps so,” answered Ruric, “could they keep it on the ground. But Drakes ha’e great flapping wings, and would merely fly above and rain havoc down. And e’en were it kept flightless, still a Dragon is nigh indestructible, and perhaps not even the greatest Host e’er assembled could do the deed.”

  “Well then,” mused Elyn, “it sounds as if only Adon Himself could slay one.”

  “But He would not, Princess,” averred Ruric. “For when He sundered the ways between the Planes, when He set His Ban upon those who willingly aided Gyphon in the Great War, He pledged to not interfere again in matters upon the Middle Plane, for the power o’ Gods be too great, and they would destroy that which they love. Hence, ye’ll not see the hand o’ Adon slay one, though surely His hand could do so.”

  With that pronouncement, Ruric turned again to his work, and after a long moment the twins began trudging back toward the keep, Elyn in a thoughtful mood, Elgo thwarted, still fuming over a way to make Trent swallow his gibe. And as they went inside, Elgo was overheard to say, “The Kammerling may be Black Kalgalath’s Doom, but if I have to devote a lifetime to it, I will be Sleeth’s Doom.”

  Thirteen days after Aranor had departed, in the late afternoon a Vanadurin upon a foam-flecked horse with a remount trailing behind came flying ’cross the plains, his black-oxen horn belling: A-raw, a-rahn! A-raw, a-rahn! A-raw, a-rahn! Atop the castle walls a sentry raised his own horn and repeated the cry: A-raw, a-rahn! [A foe, alert!]

  No sooner had the call sounded, it seemed, than the Captain of the Daywatch stood at the sentry’s side. Scanning the horizon and seeing nought but the lone horseman swiftly drawing nigh, “Leave the barway open,” came the Captain’s command, “but stand ready.”

  In the courtyard below was a mad rush of warriors assembling, among them Elyn and Elgo, juggling arms and armor even as they scrambled forth from their quarters. Swift to the stables they ran, there to saddle steeds and accouter them for battle, with saber and spear-lance and bow and arrow.

  They were just beginning to lead their sidle-stepping mounts into the bailey, when the outrider hammered past the gates and through the passage below the barbican and into the forecourt, his black-oxen horn yet sounding, hauling his lathered steed short as he leapt to the flagstones. Ruric stepped to the rider and they spoke in Valur, the warrior words coming swiftly.

  “The Naudron, sir,” gasped out the news-bringer, “they encroach upon the Reich, seeking to take back the disputed lands. The King must be warned.”

  “Aranor be not here, but Prince Elgo be”—Ruric inclined his head toward Elgo, as the Prince led his horse ’cross the court to join them, followed by Elyn—“and I be War Commander o’ this keep.” The Armsmaster’s voice was measured, calm, seeking to keep order in the young Man’s tale. “What be their numbers, their location, and their seeming goal?”

  “Mayhap a hundred crossed Breeth Ford on yestermorn,” came the reply, “heading westerly, perhaps to take the village of Arnsburg, for it lies at the center of their claim.”

  “Likely a probe by Bogar to see if Aranor still maintains a watch to defend his own,” Ruric growled.

  Ruric glanced at the sinking Sun, just now passing from sight below the top of the ramparts, and turned to the watch commander. “Ha’e the Men stand down, Captain. And join me in War council, Barda too; we need plan a counter to this latest Naudron move.”

  The Armsmaster called to a groom to take the outrider’s horse, as well as Elyn’s and Elgo’s, and bade the rider to accompany him. Too, Ruric turned to Elyn and Elgo. “Sharpen yer wits, younglings, and bring yer guile to council chambers, for we must decide swiftly upon how to proceed; an enemy force be upon the Land, and we are undermanned.”

  The council consisted of six people: Ruric, Elgo, Elyn, and the bringer of tidings, Arlan by name, and Captains Barda and Weyth, both sturdy Men
in their middling years.

  Of Arlan’s tale there was not much else to say: The force of Naudron had come upon the Realm at sunrise yesterday, crossing the River Judra at Breeth Ford, and were headed in a westerly direction. As is their custom, they were armed with sabers and bows, and wore leathern armor, and rode upon the small, swift horses of the wild steppes. Arlan, a huntsman by profession, had been stalking fox in the nearby river wood when the intruders had come across, riding upon the abandoned road at the ford. Quickly he had retrieved his horse and had ridden straightaway for Jordkeep, the youth stopping only long enough to borrow a remount from an isolated drover.

  Long the council talked, considering several plans:

  “I say we muster the nearby steads,” proposed Weyth. “We can raise a force of two hundred or so within a two-day at the most. Then will we take the fight to the scum of Bogar.”

  “I think not,” countered Ruric. “Aye, we could do as ye say, Weyth, but I deem the Naudron are in Arnsburg by now, and should we delay a Vanadurin counterstroke, Bogar will feel free to send across a main force wi’in the week.”

  Arlan responded to Ruric’s statement: “Why don’t we just take the Men of the Castleward and ride this very night?”

  “Ach, huntsman,” Barda pointed out, “riding forth with the Castleward would leave Jordkeep helpless and at the mercy of any. Who knows, mayhap Bogar holds a nearby secret force in waiting for us to do just that very thing.”

  Barda paused, then went on: “And if Bogar does have a watch on the castle, then he knows that Aranor is elsewhere, for we kept it no secret, and so he knows that the keep is undermanned. Hence, mayhap the best strategy would be to hold till the return of the King, meanwhile mustering the nation entire; and upon the King’s arrival we would have the full army ready to take War to the Naudron.”

  “Nay!” exclaimed Elyn, surprising every Man with the strength of her objection, and all eyes turned her way. “My stand is this: a full War need not be waged when a swift skirmish will accomplish the same ends.” Ruric looked upon her with something akin to fatherly pride.

  Back and forth the discussions ranged, and at last Ruric turned to canny Elgo. “What would ye advise, my Prince.”

  Undaunted, Elgo set forth his plan: “War Commander, oft’ have I heard you say ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ And I deem that this is a time for bold action, for though we here are undermanned, still we cannot wait my sire’s return. Now is the time to strike, and strike hard! Else the Naudron will think the land be theirs.

  “This then is what I propose: Send forth heralds to muster the nearby steads, gathering up two hundred warriors or so. But list! They are not to be mustered to engage the Naudron. Instead they are to gather here at Jordkeep and stand watch, for indeed this may be but a ruse to draw us forth and away, and Bogar may have a force in these regions to attack when he sees we are gone.

  “But given the history of the disputed land, it is more likely that the Naudron King has sent a probe to test our mettle. Hence, we will take half the Castleward—a band of fifty—and make for Arnsburg now, in the dark, in secret, so that any spies lurking nearby will not know that we are gone. We will leave by the small western sally port, for as you know, it is guised to look as part of the wall, and debouches into a swale that will hide us. And by the time dawn breaks, we will be well beyond their sight.

  “Those who remain on ward will simply pull double duty till the muster arrives, and until that occurs, hostile eyes will merely see what appears to be a normal keep awaiting the return of its King.

  “For those of us who set forth to engage the one hundred Naudron, we will be outnumbered two to one, yet we will not be outmanned. We will rely upon surprise and cunning to carry the day when we do fall upon them, and should that fail, then we will depend upon our prowess to defeat them. At the worst, we can do as Cunning Harold did when he met the Kathians: strike and flee, harrying them till reinforcements come to aid us.

  “Concerning these reinforcements, Arlan, I rely upon you to ride with us until the River Grey, then you are to fare north to Easton, mustering warriors there to come and strengthen our arms. Know you the way? Well and good. Bring them straightaway to Arnsburg; we will leave Vanadurin sign upon our track should we be warring in a cut-and-run fashion.

  “Mayhap each of you think this a reckless plan, for until the Easton relief comes, fifty engage one hundred; yet again I remind you: Fortune favors the bold.

  “Are there any questions?” Elgo fell silent, and all in the room looked upon him with pride, for until this moment he had been but a lad of not quite sixteen summers, a Prince to be sure, but still a lad. Yet now they saw him through new eyes, and they beheld a Man.

  “What do you mean I can’t go?” Elyn was furious. “I’ve trained all my life for this, and now that you desperately need a Warrior Maid, you tell me I must remain behind!”

  Ruric turned, guilt in his eyes. The Armsmaster and the Princess were alone in the council chamber. “Ah me, lass, ye know that I cannot risk both o’ Aranor’s seed in but a single battle.”

  “Then let me ride to Easton and call forth the muster,” Elyn pled. “That way Arlan can remain with you, lending his skill to the force.”

  “Lass, lass, we know not what Bogar may ha’e lying in wait out upon the plains,” responded Ruric. “For all we know, ’tis a great ambush into which we sally forth in ignorance. Princess, ye must stay behind.”

  “Why?” Elyn’s eyes flashed. “Because I’m a girl?”

  “Girl Hèl! Ye be a better fighter than nearly any that goes wi’ me!” roared Ruric, slamming a clenched fist into his palm. Then his mood softened. “Nay, lass, ’tis as I say. Both o’ Aranor’s heirs cannot be risked on such a mission. One must stay behind.”

  “That could be Elgo as well as me,” shot back Elyn.

  “Ah nay, Princess, for ’tis his plan we set forth to do, and it be his right.” Ruric swept up his saber, glancing at the candlemark. “I held ye behind to tell ye my decision, out o’ the hearing o’ the others, for I knew it would not set well wi’ ye. Abide by it, lass, for yer sire would ha’e it so.” Ruric turned and strode from the hall, setting forth to join the others.

  Bitterly, Elyn watched him go.

  Later that night the Princess sat before the throne, looking at the coat of arms hanging above it—white horse rampant upon a green field—cursing the state of her birth. Had she not been Aranor’s child, she would have sallied forth with the others when they silently filed out into the night. But her station kept her from it. Were she not a Princess, then she would have gone. But on the other hand, were she not a Princess, then she more than likely would not be a Warrior Maid. Somewhat of a dilemma, she ruefully admitted.

  Yet wait! Elgo went on the mission. What if he were the only heir—would he still have gone, risking death, leaving the Crown bereft of a future King? Elyn had no doubt as to the answer to her question: Of course he would do so, heir or not. And if the Realm should lose a successor, then so be it. Hence, if engaging the foe is more important than preserving the Line, then why am I not with them? Rach! Why did I not think of this when Ruric held me back?

  And as the Princess pondered what she should have said, and what she should have done, weariness at last overcame her and she finally took to her quarters.

  The next morn, wan and desolate, Elyn picked at her food. Dressed in her leathers, she sat at meal with three young Ladies of her age—Kyla, Darcy, and Elise—all of whom talked of the Men going off to engage the Naudron, and all of whom commiserated with Elyn, railing at the cavalier treatment she had suffered, though none of the three Ladies understood precisely just why the Princess would want to go.

  The mood became even more glum when they were joined by Mala, her severe countenance serving only to add to the misery.

  “Well, I just don’t think it was fair,” exclaimed Darcy, continuing the conversation. “After all, why would Ruric keep you back?”

  “I agree,” chimed in Elise. “After
what you said about heirs engaging the foe, Darcy’s right, it just doesn’t make sense.”

  Imperiously, Mala tapped her spoon against her glass. When she had their attention: “Ladies, it is precisely because of the need for heirs to the Throne that War Commander Ruric did what was right.” Mala’s tone brooked no disagreement.

  “Meaning?” Elyn was in no mood to listen to another of Mala’s lectures, yet she could not forgo questioning her spinster aunt’s statement.

  “Meaning that the Line must be preserved.” Mala spoke as to a child. “Should Elgo fall in battle—or at any time prior to producing offspring—then the heir will come from your womb, Niece.”

  “What you say mayhap will come true in the end, Aunt,” responded Elyn, “yet I think that I must have a heartmate ere I can bear a child.”

  “Perhaps that will come sooner than you expect, dear Elyn,” replied Mala.

  “And just what do you mean by that?” Now Elyn’s voice took on a cold tone, for her aunt’s assertions were leading somewhere, somewhere perhaps that Elyn did not want to go, yet she needed to understand just what Mala was driving at.

  The spinster’s face took on a knowing look, and she glanced at Elise, Darcy, and Kyla. These three made a move as if to rise, for they fully realized that they were not part of this conversation, nor were they wanted by Mala; but at a gesture from Elyn, they settled back to the edge of their chairs. “Very well, my dear, if you would have everyone know, it’s just this: You are nearly sixteen, the marrying age. Aranor has gone to Aven on a trade mission, and Randall, the Aven King, has not one, but two sons who have recently both lost their wives to the fever. Indeed, they are each somewhat older than your tender age; I think the youngest, Haddon, is some twenty-two years your senior, yet both he or his elder brother, Corbin, would make a suitable match for you.”