“It is his burned face, Armsmaster, and his ruined eye . . . and mayhap the Dragon spew as well,” answered the senior healer. “They fever him. And there is little that we can do except to pray to Adon that he throws these foul vapors off.” Ruric glanced at Alda, who nodded, agreeing with Pwyl’s words.
The Armsmaster lay down once more and tried to recapture sleep. Yet through his mind rolling over and over came an unbidden single word: Dracongield.
Early morn of the next day the burial squad returned; Elgo’s fever yet raged; and a curious thing happened to Sleeth the Orm’s corpse: where Elgo had chopped away the hide from the Drake’s face, the bones and muscle and tissues inside withered before the daylight; Adon’s Ban took its full toll where the Dragonscale protected not.
This day, too, Ruric went into the depths of Blackstone to see for himself the greatness of the trove. It was vast. More than could be borne in the four pony-drawn waggons. Gems and gold formed the bulk of it, though here and there silveron winked in the lamplight. There were coins and twisted bracelets and carven chalices, torques and bejewelled necklaces and gem-covered cups, ropes of gold, a small silveron trumpet etched with riders ahorse racing among mystic runes carven upon the bell, jewelled ingots, bags of golden tokens, candelabras finely wrought, golden lamps and lanterns and spoons and forks, knives of electrum, emerald necklaces set with rubies, diamonds . . . and more, much more, all mounded into a great pile, an Orm’s bed: a hoard beyond reckoning.
Down a side passage near the entrance, Young Kemp and Arlan found twelve or so Dwarf wains, made for hauling large loads of heavy cargo. Though they were ancient, still they were perfectly preserved, having been stored in the dry air of the cavern. They were made to be drawn by four horses each, the trappings hanging on hooks nearby. Three of the waggons were selected, and an unopened bucket of grease was located, but the contents had caked with age; instead, the axles and whiffletrees were treated with tallow and lamp oil, as well as the traces, though fat would be used as soon as game could be felled.
And Men pushed and pulled the wains and waggons down into the Dragon’s lair, for horses refused to go even into the west hall; for the corpse of the Drake lay within, amid the stench of a great dead snake, and the Vanadurin would not force their steeds past this afrightening thing.
And so the trove was loaded, filling four small and three large wains, the Men sweating and swearing as they pushed each waggon in turn out of the bowels of Blackstone, moving the now-laden hoard to the courtyard.
This took all of two days, and throughout Elgo’s fever raged. Pwyl doctored the Prince with herbs and simples, yet nought seemed to have an effect.
On the third day, Elgo’s fever broke, and he fell into a natural sleep. After consulting with the healers as to when Elgo could travel—abed in a waggon if need be—Ruric declared that on the morrow the Warband would set forth, for they had a far northern rendezvous to keep with the Dragonboats of the Fjordsmen.
The next morning Ruric, Reynor, Pwyl, and Alda tenderly placed Elgo upon a bedding of blankets in one of the wains, the burnt-faced Prince still asleep. Beside him upon part of the trove Ruric cast the swath of Dragonhide that Elgo had laboriously gouged from Sleeth’s brow. And as the Sun edged up into the sky on the east side of the mountains, at last the Harlingar column started down the steep-walled vale in the dawntide shadows on the west, leaving Blackstone behind.
Slowly they wended down the sheer canyon, passing under the high stone wall spanning the narrows of the gorge, through the hollow twisting way below the crenellated battlements, and out from under the deserted barbican: four pony-drawn waggons, three Dwarf wains pulled by four steeds each, two empty-saddled horses—Shade one of them—tethered to tailgates, and twenty-six mounts bearing Vanadurin. Forty-one riders had entered the vale; thirty-three survivors rode out.
Long they paced down the twisting valley, following alongside the streambed, the trundling wains rolling slowly upon the ancient carven stone roadway, axles groaning under the burden of the hoard. But finally they emerged from the vale, and came upon eight turved mounds.
Ruric called a halt, and all Men dismounted, the drivers clambering down from the waggons, as well. All stepped unto the close-set barrows, and stood in a semicircle and removed their helms, and many wept. Ruric’s voice lifted up in an elder benediction of the Vanadurin:Ride forth, Harlingar, ride forth,
Along the Shadowed Way,
Where only Heroes gallop
And Steeds never tire.
Hál, Warriors of the Spear and Saber!
Hál, Warriors of the Knife and Arrow!
Hál, Warriors of the Horn and Horse!
Ride forth, my comrades, ride forth!
And as the echoes of Ruric’s voice died, the Armsmaster looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Elgo standing in the circle, weak and trembling, yet somehow the burnt-faced, one-eyed warrior had managed to join the arc of mourners.
“What day is it, Ruric?” asked Elgo, his voice faint and thready as he leaned upon Reynor while making his way slowly back to the wain.
“ ’Tis the twenty-fifth, my Prince,” answered the Armsmaster, “four days past Year’s Long Day.”
Elgo’s gaze swept up to the Sun. “When left you the gates of Blackstone?”
“At dawning, Lord.” Ruric began to see where Elgo’s thoughts were taking him.
“Then it has taken twice as long to come back out as it did when we first rode in.” The Prince’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“The load we bear is massive, my Lord.” Reynor’s voice was filled with subdued pride. “Sleeth’s bed was greater than any could imagine.”
The Prince turned to the youthful warrior. “I would see this treasure, friend.”
Aided by Reynor and Ruric, Elgo slowly walked from waggon to waggon, inspecting the trove, a hoard nigh beyond counting. And when they came to the last wain the Prince crawled inside and sat upon his bedding. “Reynor, take Young Kemp and what rations you’ll need and ride for the rendezvous on the Boreal Sea. Tell Arik we’ll be late, but hold the boats. We’ll come draggling in as fast as may be, yet exactly when, I cannot say. I’ll send another rider as we get a better gauge on our progress.”
As Reynor and Young Kemp set about preparing for a swift ride north, Elgo looked at Ruric, and then to the eight mounds. “A vast hoard, Armsmaster, yet bought at a dear price.” Ruric nodded, his own gaze straying across Elgo’s acid-galled face set with a black eye patch.
Alda stepped to wainside, bearing a potion. “Rach, Alda,” growled Elgo, “I would have meat and drink, not herb tea.”
Alda smiled, and inclined his head toward Pwyl, who was at that very moment approaching the waggon, carrying a cut of meat and a chunk of waybread and a canteen of water. “You shall have both, my Lord,” said the younger healer.
The original mission plan had called for a journey of three weeks to get to Blackstone from the Boreal Sea, with five weeks allotted for the return. Yet it was six weeks ere the Vanadurin Warband reached the shores of the water. There they found Reynor and Young Kemp, who had been the first sent ahead, and Arlan, who had followed some two weeks later—once the speed of the column had been well estimated—bearing news to be given to Arik and the Fjordsmen as to when the remainder of the waggon-paced Warband might be expected to arrive.
Yet Arik and the Dragonboats were not there.
“How long do we wait, m’Lord?” Young Kemp’s question was upon all of their minds.
“Mayhap a month, Kemp, but no longer,” came Elgo’s reply, as he stood and stirred the campfire, the Prince’s eye patch dark in the nighttide, the acid burns nearly healed, a ruddy scarring upon the brow and along the left temple. “At the rate these wains travel, we’ll be hard pressed to reach any civilization before snow flies.”
“Aye,” agreed Ruric, “for if the Fjordsmen do not come, then we could fare southward along the Rigga Mountains, through Rian and into Rhone, making for the Crestan Pass. But I deem it will be snowed in
by the time we get there; and if we choose that route from here, we will ha’e to winter at the foot o’ the col there along the Grimwall.”
“But isn’t Drearwood along that course?” Reynor’s question caused the Harlingar to eye each other uneasily, for Drearwood was a place of dire repute, a grim land shunned by all except those who had no choice but to pass through that dim forest, or those who sought fame. Many was the bard’s tale that spoke of those vile environs, of half-glimpsed monsters beaten off in the dark, of bands of travellers who had entered, never to be seen again.
“Aye”—Ruric nodded—“but ’tis that or fare across the wide end o’ the wedge o’ the Angle o’ Gron.” Again the Vanadurin glanced at one another, many shaking their heads, for they would not willingly cross into Modru’s bleak Realm, even though it was said that the foul Wizard was fled into the Barrens, into the northern wastes.
“We could winter back in Blackstone,” Arlan suggested, “though I would not care to spend the long cold nights in that dark hole of a stone cavern.”
“Nay,” grunted Elgo, “not Blackstone. We have not much grain for the steeds, and to winter in Blackstone, or anywhere else for that matter, will require fodder to see them through to the spring. And there’s nought such at that abandoned Dwarvenholt. We will make for Challerain Keep instead, e’en though it lies southerly, and we would fare east given a choice.”
“What I mislike, my Lord,” growled Ruric, “be this making o’ plans to traipse about the ’scape lugging a great hoard wi’ us. Why, we’ll be the target o’ every brigand in all o’ Mithgar, once the word gets out. Dracongield, pah!”
“Rach,” spat Young Kemp, “where be them Fjordsmen?”
Indeed, where do be the Fjordsmen? Ruric’s thoughts reflected what all wished to know. This be another thing that escaped our cunning plans.
Over the next week the Vanadurin speculated often as to the whereabouts of their allies. Some deemed that perhaps Arik and his band of raiders had met with a dire fate in Jute; others thought mayhap the Dragonboats had been lost at sea; some voiced belief that the raider Captain had not abandoned them, yet perhaps this was to convince not only others but themselves as well. Regardless, they had no way of quickly ascertaining why the boats were not here, and so they settled in for a month-long stay, knowing that Elgo planned on making for Challerain Keep had Arik not arrived by the end of that time.
The horses were pastured in a nearby green vale, feeding on rich summer grass and clover, what little grain remained from their original stores being saved for their planned voyage back to Skaldfjord . . . or being saved for an unanticipated southward trek should it come to that.
Lean-tos were constructed as shelters, saplings being cut from the thickets close at hand.
Arlan the hunter led small forays into the nearby hills, bringing venison to the spits of the camp. And Alda, having been raised in a seaside village, showed Reynor and Elgo and others how to draw fish from the waters; even Armsmaster Ruric joined in this effort, proving singularly inept at the sport. And Young Kemp and Pwyl brought roots and tubers down from the hills to throw into the cooking pots. In all, it was an idyllic time, except for the fretting over the Fjordsmen.
The eighth day dawned to dark clouds hanging low upon the brim of the western sea. Foam scudded on the waters, and wind swirled angrily along the shore. The air burgeoned with the promise of a heavy storm, and Men shook out their oiled rain-cloaks.
Slowly the clouds marched eastward, ramping high up into the darkling sky by midmorn. The wind grew stronger with every passing hour, and waves rolled over the sea in long curling combers.
And as the blustering day pressed toward a sunless noon, from the brow of the hill where stood the lookout came a horncry, the pattern lost in the wind. Reynor glanced up at this faint sound, wondering at its source; and he saw the sentry gesticulating frantically, pointing westward.
“My Lord,” Reynor called out to Elgo, “Haldor espies something.”
Elgo got to his feet and looked at the sentinel’s broad gestures; and the Prince began jog-trotting toward the tor, his gait quickening; and as he ran, the wind at last carried Haldor’s words unto him. “Sails ho!” was the sentry’s cry. “Sails ho!”
And there upon the foam-wracked waves, framed by the black sky behind, came three Dragonboats, racing before the wind.
“Surfbison lies at the bottom o’ the sea, burnt and sunk.” Ariks’ voice was grim. “The Jutlanders are somewhere behind us; a fleet pursues, though I deem this storm ha’ driven them to land, and mayhap will throw them from our track. E’en so, Prince Elgo, we must get ready now to load yer goods when the sea will permit, for as soon as the blow is past, we’ve got to take to the deeps; Atli’s Men follow our wake, though Atli himself no longer walks among the living.”
“So your blood debt has been collected, eh, Arik?” Elgo asked, while at the same time motioning for Ruric to join him, the Armsmaster just now returning with Arlan and others from the hunt, a doe slung across Flint’s withers.
“Aye, it ha’,” answered the blond Captain. “Tarly Olarsson split him in two wi’ an axe, though Tarly himself went down wi’ a dagger through his throat as we fought our way back to the ships.
“But wi’ the loss o’ the Surfbison and all her crew, as well as the slaying o’ those from the other ships in the raid, our vengeance came at a higher price than we bargained for . . .” Arik paused for a moment, looking at Elgo’s features. “. . . much as I deem that ’ee perhaps paid on your own mission.”
Elgo lightly fingered the still-tender scars on his left temple. “Aye, you’re right at that, Captain. We, too, paid more than we bargained for. Eight Men fell to Sleeth. And he took out my eye and scarred me for life. But in the end Sleeth the Orm fell to us.”
“ ’Ee slew the Drake?” Arik’s mouth fell open in astonishment.
Elgo nodded as Ruric joined them. “By Adon’s hand, we slew him,” answered Elgo, “tricked him into daylight.”
Arik shook his head. “Tricked him into the Sun. . . . Hah! Lad, ’ee be a marvel. How deadly. How simple. Now why be it that none thought o’ it sooner, I wonder?”
“Ah, Captain, I cannot claim all the glory. ’Twas something that my sister Elyn said long ago: ‘. . . it sounds as if only Adon Himself could slay one,’ she remarked as we talked about killing Dragons. And she was right, though at the time I did not see that what she had said had any bearing upon the slaying of a Cold-drake. It took me some six or so years to recognize the truth in her words and come upon the plan for striking Sleeth dead.”
“And his trove, did ’ee come by that, too?” Arik’s eyes swept the Harlingar campsite, for the first time seeing the Dwarf wains alongside the pony waggons.
“Aye, we got the Dracongield.” Ruric’s voice was tinged with rue.
“Armsmaster, have the Men gather in the horses,” Elgo commanded. “And get set to break camp and lade the boats at Arik’s word. Jutlanders are somewhere nigh, and we would not have them come up on our hard-won treasure.”
“Would it not be better to meet them upon the land?” Ruric asked, his words cast such that it was clear where his thoughts lay.
“Aye, if it came to it, Old Wolf,” answered Arik, “but better yet to slip them altogether. Their ships be not as fast as those o’ ours, and so we set sail as soon as the blow will let us.”
As if somehow his words were a signal, cold rain sheeted down upon the land and sea alike, driven hard before the wind.
It rained all that day and the next, the gale blowing fiercely. Steeds had been gathered from the valley pasturage and used to hale the Dragonboats up onto the shingle out of the waves. And Men prepared to break camp quickly, for as Arik had told them, the storm would end for the Jutlanders first, and they would come riding in on its tail.
And now Arik surveyed the sky. Rain still fell, though not as hard. Elgo stood at the Captain’s side, as well as the commanders of Foamelk and Wavestrider. Ruric, too, was there. “In this cove the
waves slacken,” said Arik, eyeing the boats down on the strand. “Methinks that we can lade now, setting sail wi’in an hour or so.”
“Arik, this may be but a lull.” The speaker was the Captain of Wavestrider, a hale Man in his late thirties, blond braids hanging down to his waist. “ ’Ee know the Boreal is wild as a Wolf this time o’ year, sometimes slinking quietly out o’ sight, other times raiding wi’ fury.”
“Aye, Trygga, it is at that,” responded Arik, “but if this be no lull, then the Jutlander fleet will soon come calling, and we would be long gone ere then.”
Arik turned to Egil, commander of the Foamelk, also braided, as were many of the Fjordsmen; he seemed to be in his early fifties, an astonishing age for a sea raider. “What say ’ee, Egil? ’Ee ha’e plied these waters more than any o’ us.”
“Ai, fickle as a Woman is the Boreal,” the elder Captain growled. “Right now, though, she seems to be inviting us to ride her bosom. But who can say if she means it? Not I. Might as well cast lots wi’ Fortune, as to try to outguess Lady Boreal. But I say . . . let us chance it.”
And so they roped the horses once more to the hulls and backed the sterns of the Dragonboats out into the choppy surf. Cargo was loaded, and the vast trove carried aboard, the Fjordsmen marvelling at its extent. The treasure had been divided roughly into thirds, each ship receiving its share. The pony carts and Dwarf wains were abandoned, left upon the shore, but the ponies and horses were taken aboard, for steeds were the true treasure of the Harlingar.
And none of this lading was an easy task, for the waves pitched and tossed the Dragonships about. But after much struggle, Men cursing, at times losing their tempers, some sustaining injuries, all losing their footing in the billowing tide at one time or another, many several times, at last the job was done. Hardest of all was the loading of the horses, and Elgo despaired that they would ever accomplish it. But then Reynor struck upon the means, watching the surges tossing the gangways, noting that the waves seemed to come in sets of seven—a fleeting span of calm between sets—and charging his horse, Wing, through the lull and up. Following his example, most of the remaining riders and steeds made it up on the first try.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 16