“Seal it,” commanded Elgo. And Vanadurin stepped to the buckets of clay, reaching in and pulling out great handfuls, forming long thick ropy strands by rolling it upon the stone floor. These in turn were borne to the canvas and placed along its edge behind and pressed into both wall and cloth, sealing the canvas border around the gateway, Men climbing the ladders as needed, and dangling below the lower walkway above to finish the task.
It was early afternoon when this work was done, and Elgo called for the lanterns to be shuttered. Now the west hall plunged into darkness. And after a long while, a murmur of excitement growing as all eyes adjusted to the pitch black, “Hai, well done,” called Elgo, “for I can see nought. Now we go adragon hunting.”
The lamps were relit and Men girded themselves with arms, though if it came to a pitched battle with the Cold-drake, their weaponry would not suffice.
Ten shed their armor, Elgo among them. They were the fleetest of foot, and would be the ones to seek out Sleeth. Each tied a quilted cloth mask upon his face, covering mouth and nose, the screens sewn with powdered limestone and charcoal in between the layers; wetted, it was thought that this would afford some protection against the poisonous vapors of Sleeth’s deadly breath, though none knew for certain. And ere Reynor lashed on his mask he gave the others a rakish grin, and they smiled in return. And each took up a leather skin filled with a phosphorescent liquid, a thick slushy mix of water and a lichen that glowed in the dark.
“Well, Armsmaster”—Elgo’s voice was muffled by the cloth over mouth and nose—“when we are gone, set the Men in place and extinguish your lanterns, and, aye, don your masks, for soon I deem we’ll bring a Dragon your way.”
“Remember, my proud Prince,” advised Ruric, his voice husky with emotion, “look not into his eyes, for ’tis said that Dragons ha’e the power to beguile.” Ruric then fell silent, not trusting his voice to speak further, for his heart was pounding: his Lord strode into a danger untold. This was a gambling beyond reckoning, yet the plan was sound. Even so, Ruric sensed disaster, but spoke of it not, merely nodding, giving his Prince a salute instead.
Now Elgo turned unto the thirty remaining behind. “Hál Vanadurin,” he cried, his voice loud and echoing down the cavern, for there was no longer a reason to remain quiet. “May the smiling face of Fortune gaze upon us all.”
Hál Vanadurin! came the shouted return, and Elgo and nine others caught up their lanterns and set off along the Dragon track, following the scale-polished stone down into the depths, heading for Sleeth’s lair.
Down into Blackstone they went, down along a wide smoothed trace palely shining in the lantern light. Behind them glowed a set of phosphorescent arrows pointing back the way they had come, arrows drawn with slashing strokes by Elgo and these Men. Down through a labyrinthine maze of Dwarven tunnels they went, passages and chambers splitting off in all directions. Stairs wound upward to left and right, pitching downward as well. Holes gaped to either side, leading where, none could say. Great chambers they trekked through, passing out the far end. They took little time to examine the rooms they trod within, for little time they had. Yet some chambers they could tell at a glance what their purposes were, others they could not. A great kitchen lay along their path, along the Dragon trail, but it had fallen into ruin, tables smashed by Sleeth slithering along his route. To one side they passed a smithy, forges cold, anvils silent, hammers not aringing. Too, there came an armory, weapons in cold array, chain and plate waiting to be clad. Other chambers they traversed, ore rooms, stoneworks, and the like. Yet what they saw was but a minuscule portion of the whole. It was like trekking through a few streets and buildings of a vast darkened city, abandoned long ago. And a great dolor seemed to fill the air.
Yet the Vanadurin had little time to ponder this deep sadness, for it was a Dragon they sought, and their blood ran high. A mile or more they had followed the twisting polished trail, marking their path with green-glowing arrows, down corridors, ’round corners, ’cross chambers, along curves. And they knew they drew closer to their goal, for the air was now heavy with the scent of Cold-drake, the stench of a great serpent lying thickly in the air, a reek intermingled with the acrid fumes of some dire spume.
And finally they came into another great chamber, and in the center they could see the reflected glitter of something shiny.
But ere they could tell what it was, RRRAAWWWW! came a great roar, like massy brass slabs dragged one upon the other, so loud that it broke eardrums and sent the Men reeling hindward. And exploding off his bed of gold came Sleeth, a hideous monster of mammoth proportions, rushing forward with a speed that stunned his foe; and from his mouth shot a dark liquid, splashing on stone and Man alike, charring flesh and burning rock. Screaming in pain, Men fell unto the smoldering stone, and Sleeth fell upon them in fury for daring to invade his lair, his great claws slashing them asunder, bloody shreds flying through the air.
Acid struck Elgo upon the face, and he reeled back, shrieking in unbearable agony, his left eye sizzling in the dire liquid. And he fell to his knees before the onrushing Dragon, oblivious to the danger in his desperate anguish, frantically clawing at the smoldering mask and ripping it from his face. Yet strong hands lifted him up; ’twas young Reynor, come to the aid of his Prince, raising him up and dragging him backward into the passage, shouting, “Run, my Lord, run! The Drake is upon us!”
Stumbling down the hall they ran, Reynor pulling the half-blind Prince after, following a spectral trail of green-glowing arrows. Behind them came the screams of Men falling into death; behind them came the brazen roars of a mighty Dragon; behind them came the clash of adamantine claws scrabbling upon stone.
Through blazing agony Elgo heard Reynor’s voice: “He follows, my Lord! He follows!”
Elgo’s own voice jerked out between gasps: “Run on, Reynor, run on! Make certain the bastard is slain!” And he stumbled to a halt.
Reynor stopped too, and hindward, great hard talons sounded upon black rock. “I cannot leave you to him, my Prince,” came Reynor’s panting reply, the young Man urgently pulling upon Elgo’s arm. “The only way Sleeth will be killed is if you run with me, for though I may be slain, if need be I’ll lead him a merry chase down another passage so that you may escape. But, my Lord, if we are successful with your plan, then it is the Drake that will fall. By Adon, ’tis true!”
Naming Adon seemed to galvanize the Prince; resolution filled his being. Grinding his teeth against the blinding pain, his eye a fiery hole in his seared face, Elgo called upon his uttermost grit and this time truly ran.
Along the glowing trail of ghostly arrows they fled, twisting through the Dwarven tunnels, the tortuous route all that saved them from the furious pursuit. Swifter than a horse was Sleeth, sprinting over a short course; but the mazed path within the Dwarvenholt defied this speed, his bulk acting against him through the myriad turns. Even so, the Drake gained upon his running quarry, drawing ever closer to the fleeing pair whenever lengthy chambers were encountered, his enraged roars shattering down the halls upon their heels.
Now he verged upon them; they were nearly within his grasp. He would rend them with his claws rather than destroy them with his breath, for he wanted the satisfaction of feeling life leaving their sundered bodies, of death coming unto their dismembered corpses.
Just before him they fled into the pitch-black west hall, the great Cold-drake rushing behind, their flesh and bones but barely beyond his grasp.
Yet Sleeth’s Dragon eyes saw through darkness as if it were brightest day. And as he exploded into the west chamber, he saw other Men before him, their faces also shielded by strange masking, holding ropes within the blackness. And there was a covering, a cloth covering, over the gateway. Sleeth cast forth his senses into the vale beyond to find that the Sun still rode the sky—
“Now!” cried Ruric. “By Adon send the monster to Hèl!”
Chnk! Up above on the overhead walkway an axe bit into a chopping block, sheering the supporting rope in twai
n. And down on the floor thirty Men hauled hard upon the lines, fifteen to either side, ripping the canvas away from the wall, the sealing clay unable to hold the cloth against the heaving pull.
And sunlight poured into the chamber, striking Sleeth in full, the great Drake unable to halt his forward rush and turn and flee into the surrounding dark ere the bright rays fell upon him.
With an agonized roar he crashed skidding unto the stone, dying even as he struck it. For Sleeth was a Cold-drake and suffered the Ban. And now these Harlingar had destroyed the mighty Dragon, tricking him into the daylight where he was whelmed by the hand of Adon.
And even as Elgo and Reynor fled before the crashed-down sliding monster, the twain blinded by the sudden dazzling radiance pouring in, Sleeth died, the burning fire deep within his glitterbright eyes quenched forever, the Drake’s last vision that of his killers: puny Men running in fear.
CHAPTER 15
Wolfwood
Late Summer, Early Fall, 3E1602
[The Present]
All around them the Wolfwood stood darkly, and came a juddering howl from Hèl. On the knoll stood two wounded warriors, back to back for protection, waiting for one last battle.
“I am reminded,” growled the Dwarf, “that where Vulgs run, so might run the Grg.”
“Grg?” the Woman asked. “Do you mean the Wrg? Rutcha? Drōkha?”
‘Aye, Grg,” responded the Châk. “kh and Hrōk, alike. And mayhap more: Khōl, others. But by any name, yours or mine, still they may run with the Vulg.”
“Ah me, Thork,” said the Warrior Maid, her voice laden with fatigue, “would that we were rested, and shoulder and ribs mended, then would we give these Hèl-runners a fight.”
“Lady Elyn,” answered Thork, “let us give them a fight regardless.”
Bringing blade and warhammer to the guard, male and female stood in the night—remote stars wheeling o’erhead, quarter Moon riding silently up the sky—waiting for the foe.
“Ssst,” hissed Thork, “they come.”
Elyn looked, and trotting out from the woods came a great black shape. Wolf-like it was, yet no Wolf this; instead it was a Vulg, huge, standing nearly three feet at the shoulder. Baleful yellow eyes gleamed like hot coals when the Moon caught them just so. A slavering red tongue lolled over wicked fangs set in crushing jaws, drooling a virulent spittle. Vulg’s black bite slays at night: the ancient saying came unbidden to Elyn’s mind. Two more of the great beasts came sliding forth from the shadows, hideous power bunching and rippling under coarse black fur. Then came another dozen or so, slinking to and fro along the edge of the clearing, yellow gazes eyeing the quarry at bay.
Elyn’s heart was pounding, fear coursing throughout, driving away her fatigue. She stabbed her saber into the soil before her and wiped both palms upon her leathers, taking up the blade once more.
More Vulgs joined the pack, circling left and right, forming the arc of a quadrant along one edge of the glade. And Elyn and Thork suddenly shivered, for again they felt the gaze of evil upon them. And in that moment, the waiting was over, for as if they had received some arcane signal, the Vulgs exploded into motion, voicing bone-chilling howls, black doom racing toward the crown of the knoll, racing toward the woefully overmatched victims upon the crest.
“Ready, Warrior?” gritted Thork.
“Ready, Warrior,” answered Elyn.
And onward came hurtling the dire Vulgs, yellow eyes flashing, red tongues slavering, virulent spittle flying, hideous power driving beneath coarse black fur, hurling toward the wounded.
“Châkka shok! Châkka cor!” Thork vented the ancient Dwarven battlecry.
“Hál Jordreich! [Hail the Realm of Jord!]” Elyn turned about to face the onrushing pack, taking now a stance at Thork’s left side, bringing her saber up high, ready for the killing blow. Thork, too, shifted his stance to face the onslaught, hammer raised to strike.
And the hurling Vulgs drove toward the two of them, guttural sounds wrenching from their chests and throats, the hideous pack now upon them, black bodies springing, hurtling through the air.
And suddenly from behind Elyn and Thork, great snarling silver shapes flashed past and whelmed into the black assault.
Wolves! Silver Wolves! As if from nowhere came Wolves of legend, a dozen or more of the argent beasts, the Wolves nearly as large as ponies, yet blindingly quick, long fangs slashing and rending, black Vulgs falling dead. Fury raged all about the twain on the knoll, their own weapons forgotten in their bedazement.
Yet suddenly Thork leapt forward, breaking the trance, Chnk! his hammer crunching into Vulg skull, the creature dropping dead at his feet.
Now Elyn brought her saber into play, Shssh! but the great furrow she cut upon a snarling creature’s flank caused it to turn in rage upon her. Yet lo! It fell at her feet with its throat slashed, though no cut was this of Elyn’s.
From the corner of her eye Elyn thought she saw . . . someone, but when she turned no one was there. Even so, another Vulg fell dead, dark blood gushing from a gashed throat.
The glade was filled with a terrible snarling, loud, so loud the sound seemed to fill the whole world, as utter violence gripped, and shook, and rattled the very essence of the clearing, and Death stalked with a raging hand that juddered the very soul to its depths. Silver Wolves slew in a mighty slaughter, great jaws rending and tearing, whelming the Vulg foe.
And the creatures of the darkness fled yawling, for they could not withstand the silver archenemy; but Wolves pursued Vulgs, overhauling them from behind to bring them down unto death. And not one, not a single one of the Vulgs escaped the glade that night.
And when it was over, from somewhere, nowhere, everywhere, sounded a whistle, and the Silver Wolves came trotting back up the knoll, their work done this darktide.
Elyn and Thork watched them return, gathering in a circle around the twain and sitting expectantly, tongues lolling over grinning white fangs. And Elyn now saw that their fur was a dazzling, almost transparent, white, throwing back the moonlight as a silver sheen.
And lo! Suddenly before warrior and Warrior Maid stood a Man, long-knife in hand! Nay! Not a Man, but perhaps an Elf instead! Seemingly from thin air he appeared: first he wasn’t, then he was.
Thork stepped back with a grunt, bringing his hammer to a guard. Elyn’s own weapon was brought ’cross her body in a warding stance.
But the Man, the Elf, stooping to wipe the blood from his weapon upon the long grass, spoke in a gentle voice: “I am a friend.” He stood once more and sheathed the cleaned blade in a scabbard at his belt, then gestured to the grinning Wolves encircling them all. “And these are friends of mine.”
Man height he was, six foot or so, and in this he was taller than most Elves, yet his eyes held the hint of a tilt, and his ears were pointed, though less so than one would expect. His hair was long and white, hanging down beyond his shoulders, its sheen much the same as Silver Wolf fur, though somehow darker; in spite of his white hair, he looked to be no more than thirty. He was dressed in soft grey leathers, black belt with silver buckle clasped at his waist. His feet were shod with black boots, supple and soft upon the land. His eyes were as piercing as those of an eagle, their color perhaps grey, though it was difficult to tell in the light of the pale quarter Moon. At his throat was a glimmer of silver, mayhap an amulet upon leather thong.
“I am Thork, of Mineholt Kachar,” growled the Dwarven warrior, lowering his hammer, “and this be Elyn of Jord.”
The Elf, the Man, stood confused for a moment, head cocked to one side, as if seeking an elusive thought. “Names . . . ah yes, names,” he responded at last, shaking his head in bemusement. “I had forgotten. Call me . . . call me Wolfmage, a name I held in the past.”
“Wolfmage? But that’s the name of the Wizard of Wolfwood.” Through Elyn’s mind tumbled legends of old, and her eye fell upon the Silver Wolves, her mind recalling Trent the Bard’s song of a Mage that ran with Wolves.
The Magus spread his hands an
d gestured to the forest surround. “Lady Elyn, this is the Wolfwood.”
“But it is said that evil shuns the Wolfwood”—the Warrior Maid’s gaze strayed to the slain Vulgs—“yet evil came within.”
A flush of anger darkened the face of the Mage, and a huge Silver Wolf stood and growled, uncertain as to the source of the threat. And Wolfmage turned to Wolf and spoke a strange word, and the beast sat once again. “He senses my ire, does Greylight—if you must have a name for him as well. For he is as puzzled as I at this riddle of Vulgs within the ’Wood. Never have they invaded in a force such as this, steering clear instead of stepping within. For they fear the Draega, the Silver Wolves of Adonar.”
“They came into these woods for they sought our blood, these Vulgs” gritted Thork. “Just one of many foe these past nights.”
“Even so,” responded the Wolfmage, “still would they sheer off pursuit rather than run among these trees.”
“Evil has hounded us for nearly a fortnight running,” said Elyn, “relentless in its quest. From the Khalian Mire to here, vile foes have harried us, seeking our doom. Why? We know not. Yet Thork deems, as do I, that the Vulgs came into your demesne because we were here.”
The Magus stepped to one of the Vulg corpses, Greylight standing and padding to his side, hackles up, ready to attack should the slain creature show signs of movement, the other Silver Wolves standing ready as well. Kneeling, the Mage placed a hand upon the dead Vulg’s brow and remained motionless, his eyes closed. A siss of air sucked in between clenched teeth, and he uttered one word: “Andrak.”
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