Throughout the day they slumbered, now and again waking, though all was quiet, to fall asleep once more. Overhead the skies grew darker as the daytide waxed and then waned. Now the black clouds roiled above them—though, sleeping, they knew it not. Far off came a distant rumble, thunder from the approaching storm.
Elyn awoke when a droplet fell upon her resting cheek. She turned to waken Thork, for the skies were black, and wind stirred the trees; but a stab of lightning and a crash of thunder brought the Dwarf to his feet, his hands groping for his axe.
Elyn ran to the steeds, untethering each and leading them back to the campsite through the blowing flaw. Hastily the two broke camp, for evening was upon them. And they donned their oiled-leather rain-cloaks just in time, for the skies split open and water poured down in a blinding torrent.
Long they rode through the tempest, among the writhing wind-tossed trees, hard-driven icy rain hammering down. And all about them lightning smashed and thunder roared, and the steeds skitted and started with each rending crash.
At last Elyn urged her grey up beside Thork, and called out above the storm. “Shelter, Thork. We need shelter. The mounts cannot take this cold pounding any longer.”
And in the shattering illumination of lightning, Thork followed an uphill bent, coming to a shelter of sorts: an overhang in a hillside, the recess behind a small stand of pines. They crowded in under the lip above, and at last were out of the direct rain, though water blew inward with the gusting wind, wetting them still.
Lightning crashed down nearby, thunder slapping immediately; and the icy rain redoubled its hammering, the wind whipping the pines before their shelter. And Elyn and Thork, shivering, huddled together for warmth, wrapped about by a light tarpaulin taken from ’round Thork’s roll. And above the sound of the wind and the blinding rain came a crashing from the forest, and a rending of trees.
“The thing?” Elyn shed the tarp and leapt to her feet, swiftly drawing her saber from saddle scabbard upon Wind’s flank.
Thork, too, was afoot, axe near at hand, working the articulated lever ’tween string and stock of his crossbow, cocking it, then loading a red quarrel.
They peered out into the blackness, rain thundering down, an occasional flash of lightning starkly illuminating the dark woods. Elyn could see nought, but Thork pointed, yet at what, she could not at first say. Then came another flash, and a horrid great being stood among the trees: fourteen feet tall, like a giant Rutch, it seemed, but massive and brutish, and scaled with a greenish skin. Yet no Rutch was this; instead it was an Ogru, and it was snuffling the air, as if to catch the scent of a quarry.
The flash died, yet Elyn saw it in her mind’s eye still, recoiling from its image. Then Thork pointed again, and lo! the next flare revealed yet another Ogru, identical to the first . . . hunting, snuffling, as well.
Thork drew Elyn back, and muttered in her ear: “Trolls. They seek us. Yet this storm thwarts them, for they cannot catch our scent or those of our steeds. May Elwydd send more rain hammering down. Make no noise, for they are a foe we cannot slay without the help of many. Muzzle your horse so it whinnies not, else we are lost.”
Elyn stepped to Wind and placed a calming hand upon the mare’s soft nose, cooing gentle words. Thork, too, held Digger’s muzzle, but if he spoke to the pony Elyn heard him not. And they listened to the crashing of timber above the driving tempest, as the questing Ogrus shouldered among the forest trees, snuffling yet finding nought but the scent of a drenched woodland, cupping a hand behind batwing ear but hearing only the deluge, staring with red glaring eyes but seeing only wind-whipped limbs lashing about in the blow.
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed and the storm redoubled its fury again, and now the twain could hear nought but the whelming downpour. Whether the Ogrus drew near or far, they could not tell. And in the blackness Elyn had visions of one of those creatures rending aside the pines and an ugly face leering in upon their hiding place.
All night the rain hammered down, and morning found it falling still, though more gently. And even as the pair peered out from their hideaway in the blear light, the sky-fall softened yet again as clouds blew easterly.
Leaving the shelter, east they headed, travelling through the woods. And as they rode, the rain finally stopped, though all around them water dripped from the leaves.
Once again evil had come upon them, and once again they had avoided its clutch, though this time it was by mere happenstance. Much would they give to resolve who was the target of this malevolent pursuit, and why; yet even should they know, still would they travel together.
They came at last to another hillside where stood a better shelter, one with a deep overhang. Here they stopped for the day, for they needed rest.
A week later, Elyn and Thork splashed across a river into the forest named Wolfwood, a place where it is said that evil shuns. Here legend had it that beasts of the elden days once dwelled: High Eagles, Silver Wolves, Bears that once were Men, horned horses named Unicorn, and other things of ancient fable. Too, it is told that upon a time here dwelled a Mage. His name? It is not now known.
Regardless, these legends did not enter the minds of Elyn and Thork as they crossed the river, for they did not know the name of the wood they entered; and even if they had, still it would not have mattered, for behind them they could hear howls of another foe . . . Whom? They did not know or care. All that mattered is that once again the hunt harried their track.
For the past seven nights running, they had been relentlessly pursued by the Foul Folk: Rutcha and Drōkha and Trolls, as well as some they could not name, came at them from the protection of the darkness, loosing arrows, hurling spears, closing in to do battle with club and cudgel, scimitar and tulwar, hammer and mallet, crushing weapons of spikes and chain, claws and teeth, and other means. The Woman and Dwarf at times had fought, at other times fled, seeking ways to escape the assaults; but always these or other Wrg managed to locate them, if not this night, then the next, and combat would eventually ensue.
More than once had Thork come to Elyn’s rescue, and more than once had she saved him. Both had been wounded, and Thork no longer could use his left arm, for Rutch arrow had pierced his shoulder through. Elyn’s broken ribs stole her breath, and she could not swing a saber as needed. And yet they struggled on.
Wind, too, had been scathed: pierced by arrow and bruised by cudgel; and Digger was slashed upon both flanks. Yet they bore their riders eastward, running when called upon though they were weary, going without food and water and rest as required, loyal to the end if need be.
And now they all splashed across the water, once more running for their very lives.
And into the Wolfwood they fled, dashing among the trees. Five miles or more they ran within the forest, coming at last to a small clearing, the center of which was a low knoll. And as they started across, a juddering howl came from behind them, long and drawn out, answered by a score or more.
Thork rode to the crown of the glade and stopped, dismounting, taking his hammer from the pony, slapping Digger upon the flank, crying, “Hai, Digger, run, boy, run!”
Elyn rode up behind, hauling Wind to a stop. “Thork?”
The Dwarf looked up at her, his eyes shining, his left arm useless. “Did you not hear, Elyn?” As if his words were a signal, again a juddering howl wrauled through the trees. “They are Vulgs, a foe we both cannot hope to escape. Yet you ride on, I will delay them, and perhaps you can evade them until the dawn. Now go!”
Instead, Elyn dismounted, grimacing from the pain of it. She took up her saber and sent Wind scaddling off after Digger. “Mayhap our steeds will survive, Thork.”
“Fool Woman.” Thork’s voice was strangely choked.
“Jackass Dwarf,” Elyn replied, placing her back to his. “This would be a song the bards would ever sing if they but knew.”
And back to back in the center of a clearing ’neath a quarter Moon, two wounded warriors stood and waited, their weapons at the ready.
Orm’s Lair
Midyear, 3E1601
[Last Year]
They rode into the sheer-walled valley at dawn, Elgo and his Warband. And even though it was Year’s Long Day, still the Vanadurin fared in deep shadows, for the new Sun was on the east flank of the Rigga Mountains, while the Harlingar were on the west. Steadily they forged inward, passing along the ruins of an ancient tradeway, portions of it dimly visible within the darkness, though most of the Dwarven-cut stones were sunk ’neath the soil. Four wains trundled along this remnant of an earlier age, the waggons drawn by swift tarpan ponies and escorted by the Harlingar; without the cargo they bore, Elgo’s plan would come to nought.
Inward they rode, and vaguely before them could be seen the steeps of the Rigga, massifs and pitches and soaring abutments ramping upward, stone upon stone rising unto the alpenglow, the innumerable shadows mustered unto the palisades slowly disbanding before the growing light of the dim early morn; soon most of the darkness would be gone, except for those crafty shadows that would slip behind the crags, warily circling, ever keeping their own rock between them and the moving Sun.
Eastward bore the Vanadurin, the floor of the valley curving this way and that, a rushing stream glimmering along the ravine to their right, its waters hastening o’er rounded stones. Alongside this waterway wended the roadbed followed by the Harlingar, the sounds of hooves and waggon wheels mingling with the plash. And as they rode inward the canyon narrowed, till it was no more than fifty paces wide.
Into this deep darkling slot went the Warband, to come upon a high stone wall down within the crevasse, crenelated battlements spanning the width of the gorge, a crafted bulwark of carven rock, an ancient Dwarven defense ’gainst invaders. Through the wall was an opening, under a barbican, and the course they followed fared within upon a stonework way, the stream issuing forth from beneath the road, flowing through a culvert barred by a rusted grille. The fore portcullis was raised, its iron-spiked teeth also stained with rust.
Along this way and into this passage fared the Vanadurin, following the twisting route inside, chattering echoes of iron-shod hooves and iron-rimmed waggon wheels accompanying them. Overhead in the roofway of the passage could be seen machicolations, called murder holes by some, for through them would fly arrows and bolts and scalding liquids to rain down upon invaders trapped within. But not on this day at this place would death hurl from above, for these walls were now deserted, and had been so for more than a millennium. And beneath the unguarded bulwark passed the Harlingar, to find the rear portcullis also raised by those who had fled before.
Through the wall and out the far side went Elgo and his Men, and now the ravine began to widen, belling outward, receding to left and right, hemmed in by perpendicular stone rising high above, though still the floor wended this way and that, the brook now leftward of the roadway. Easterly they fared, and before them loomed the sheer face of the Rigga Mountains, the dark rock in its massiveness seeming close enough to touch.
Now the Warband came to the very head of the valley, chary eyes seeking to see what dangers might therein be. Before them lay a wide courtyard fetching up against the shadowed flank of the rising mountain. To their left the gurging rill issued forth from beneath the sheer rock, flowing out through a low, barred stonework opening, becoming the swift-running stream that dashed down the length of the vale. But this rushing bourn did not hold their gaze, for yawning before them at last stood the ebon gape of the west door into Blackstone, the great iron gates, torn from their hinges, lying rusty upon the dark granite forecourt, where Sleeth had hurled them down some sixteen hundred years agone. Cautiously they stepped their steeds forward, iron-shod hooves ringing on stone, iron-rimmed wheels grinding after, past a great stone pedestal in courtyard center with carven steps winding up and around. Harlingar eyes swept side to side, seeing nought but dead stone, their gazes ever returning unto the forbidding blackness of this hole before them. Ancient Vanadurin legend told of the haunted Realm of the Underworld, where heroes come to ruin. And always in these hearthtales, the way to disaster led through cracks and splits and holes in the ground, through carven cavern as well as unworked cave. Ever would the heroes ignore the warnings of loved ones, ever would they disregard the portents of the gods, and ever would they enter through these fissures in the earth, never to escape the dreadful woe awaiting within. And now Elgo’s Warband stepped toward a great black hole boring into the earth, grim folklore skittering through their minds, hackles rising on their napes at sight of this dark pit. Yet the Vanadurin, brave warriors of the grassy plains and open skies, rode inward toward their unknown destinies, just as did the paladins in those dire legends of old.
Riding into the foregate courtyard, the Warband halted, Elgo dismounting, hand signalling the others to do likewise. Before them the face of the mountain rose sheer unto the sky, the portal carved in a great massif. And as the sky lightened and day filtered down into the deep vale, they could see where the Dwarvenholt got its name, for the stone was ebon black, a darkling rock that sucked at the light.
Near the door lay a great ballista, partly assembled, its metal fallen into rust, the wood grey and weak, splintered by weather, pitted by age. Nearby lay long iron shafts, quarrels, also rusted nigh unto total ruin, except for the crafted points, made of some silvery alloy, traces of a dark grume within the flutes.
Too, there lay the arms and armor of Dwarven warriors—axes, crossbows, chain, plate—corroded beyond redemption. And the armor held other remains: the shattered skulls and broken bones of those long dead, and bits of tattered cloth and leather.
“Ruric,” Elgo said softly, “methinks we look upon evidence of a Dwarven party that sought to evict a Drake ages past. Tell the Men not to touch the smůt upon yon shaft points; for though legend has it that Dragon’s blood destroys any poison, still would the Dwarves test that legend, and I deem this dark smearing to have been a deadly blending of theirs, and may be deadly still.” Elgo’s eyes scanned the scene. “From all indications, Sleeth came upon them ere they were ready, but ai-oi! see the size of that bow. As we have spoken ere now, a band would need to use a shaft-caster to have a chance of dealing a Drake a deathblow by these means. Even so, should they miss, all would be lost, for there would not be enough time to reload ere the creature would be upon them. Or should they hit and not penetrate Dragonhide, then all is lost as well. Or should they penetrate and merely wound . . . well, it matters not, for the signs show that this Dwarven band was unprepared when they came to ruin”—Elgo glanced at the lightening sky—“a fate we must avoid. Let us hurry, for we have much to do in the day that is left.”
As Ruric oversaw the unlading of the waggons, Elgo and Reynor made their way up two foregate steps and across a wide flat past the torn-down portals and into the arch of the great west gateway. Cautiously they peered into the dark environs before them, seeing a great hallway receding beyond sight, fading into the black bowels of this ebon hole carved into the earth. To right and left along the walls they could vaguely see great buttresses rising to support an unseen roof in the darkness above.
“Look!” exclaimed Reynor, pointing to the floor.
There upon the stone was a wide path, dimly shining, stained with ruddy grume, an ancient well-worn track of a great beast slithering in and out of its lair, belly scales polishing the floor beneath a massive bulk, grinding the dripping blood of a carried victim into the black rock. A faint smell drifted upon the air: reptilian, viperous.
“Lantern,” hissed Elgo, kneeling to look. “Get me a lantern.”
No sooner it seemed were the words out of the Prince’s mouth than Reynor was back, a lit lantern in his hands. Moving the light side to side over the track, Elgo’s excitement grew. He stepped down its length some distance, Reynor in his wake, the lantern casting swaying shadows into the dark surround. “This will lead exactly where we wish to go,” hissed Elgo, “right to the lair of the beast.”
Swiftly they returned to th
e Warband, now bearing the long rolls of sailcloth unto the gateway, hauling great lengths of rope as well. Other lanterns were lit, and the portal examined. Just as expected, to either side on left and right, ladders mounted up into the shadows, rungs leading up to the o’erhead walkways behind arrow slits carved in the stone above the gate.
Up these ways swarmed Vanadurin, bearing lanterns and ropes and block and tackle brought here for the work ahead, while below others rolled out canvas and fitted their palms with leather pads. Laying the cloth upon the stone floor in overlapping panels, awls were put into play; holes were punched and great curved needles drew rawhide thongs through the fabric, stitching the square panes together; and as the stitching went forward, dollops of pitch were dropped in to fill the laced holes behind. Swiftly they worked and quietly, while the day outside grew brighter, the Sun striding up the sky.
To one side a group of ten poured water into buckets of powdered soil, borne all the way from Jord, kneading the mix into a thick clay. In many ways, theirs was the most critical of tasks.
Still others fitted together a long heavy pole made of sections of ashwood lance shafts, each end slipped into a tight iron collar, a tube forged for just this need, and butted midway against another haft, to be held in place by a steel pin driven through drilled holes. Shaft, collar, shaft, collar . . . the work went on, pins driven in, assembling the needed long pole, just as it had been assembled many times at the castle in practice for this quest. And as it had been planned back at the keep, in turn the assembled long pole was laced along what would become the top edge of the canvas work, each stitch double-tied, the holes filled in after with a drop of pitch.
It was late forenoon when they lashed ropes upon the finished canvas, now haling the lines up and threading them through the pulleys affixed to the stonework above. And slowly they drew the great cloth into place, the light within the west chamber gradually dimming as the fabric raised up to cover the portal, shutting out the sunlight.
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