Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Sternweighting the boats and plying the oars, the Harlingar helping the battle-thinned ranks of the Fjordsmen with the rowing, at last the three Dragonships pulled free of the shingle and set out for the distant goal. And rain hammering down upon Man, horse, and horseling alike, hulls laden with Dracongield, sails were set before a fierce quartering wind that drove the boats climbing up to the peaks of the mountainous crests and sliding down into the depths of the cavernous troughs, flying northeastward upon the heaving mammoth bosom of the fickle Lady Boreal.

  That night, in the darkness, the storm struck in fury, its rage doubling and doubling again. Waves slammed into the boats, crashing over the sides, the quartering waves precipitously rolling the hulls. Many lost their footing, Ruric among them, the Armsmaster slamming into an oar trestle, whelming his head into the oaken beam, falling stunned. Pwyl crawled to the unconscious warrior and sat on the decking, placing his arms about Ruric, gathering him up and holding him tightly, keeping him from rolling about with the plunging of the ship.

  Horses, too, slipped upon the wet pitching planks, some to come crashing down upon the deck, and Elgo dispatched Men to aid the steeds and to steady them.

  Men bailed, yet in the fury of the waves more water came over the wales, drenching Men, horse, and cargo alike, swashing the inner hull with foaming spew, seawater runnelling among hooves and feet.

  Elgo struggled back to the stern of the Longwyrm, where Arik shouted orders above the shrieking wind. Seeing the Prince in the light of his storm lantern, Arik put his head close to that of Elgo’s. “We’re swinging to the steerboard and casting out the sea anchors and reefing the sail. We’ve no chance but to run straight before the wind, northerly or easterly I think, but there’s no guarantee o’ that.”

  A Fjordhorn sounded, and was answered by a faint cry astern. Arik grunted. “Good. They know the plan.

  “Go forward, Prince, and ha’e yer Men bail as if their lives depend upon it—for indeed they do—and perhaps we’ll all live to see the morning.”

  Again and again the ship fell with juddering crashes into the sea. And in the blackness Men bailed, some using chalices from the Dragon hoard. A Fjordsman came and bade them to lash themselves to the shield cleats, so that if they were washed overboard they wouldn’t be lost. Ropes were uncoiled and Men cinched them about their waists and to the wooden fittings as directed, and then returned to bailing.

  Bearing a lanthorn and clutching at the strakes of the pitching ship, Ruric, now conscious, made his way to Elgo, the Armsmaster drenched, a great lump upon his forehead, his eyes wide in the swaying light, his look fey, one of doom. Pulling the Prince down to crouch beside him upon the planks, Ruric shouted above the storm: “My Lord, the Dracongield, it be cursed. We must rid ourselves o’ it. We must throw it overboard.”

  “Nay, Ruric,” Elgo called back, his voice nearly lost in the howl of the wind and the smashing of the hull into the waves, “too many good Men died for that gold. We’ll not cast it into the sea for the sake of an old wives’ tale.”

  “But my Prince, it be cursed, I tell ye. Already, it slew eight Men, and it took yer eye and scarred ye. And if we keep it then Fortune’s third face will turn our way.” The edges of Ruric’s eyes rolled white, and he cast hag-ridden glances toward the dark bulk amidship. Yet even though daunted, still he stood ready to deal with the evil of the Dracongield.

  Grasping the top wale and pressing against the ship’s side, Pwyl had come forward and now knelt beside Ruric, listening to the Armsmaster’s pleas. “My Lord, it is the blow he took upon his head that makes him so.”

  Ruric whirled leftward, his hand upon the hilt of his long-knife, glaring at the healer and spitting, “Nay, Pwyl, ’tis the accursed Dracongield! Treat me not as if I were but a frightened child. The treasures o’ Drakes carry bane and bale. The trove be damned, I tell ye. Cursed!”

  In that moment the lashing rain began to slacken, the shrieking wind to abate, though the mountainous waves ran on.

  “Nay, Ruric,” soothed Pwyl, placing a calming hand upon the warrior, “you see, even now the storm passes. ’Tis nought but natural weather, and not some mad bane.”

  His haggard eyes filled with uncertainty and confusion, Ruric glanced at the sky and then back at the hoard, unwilling to believe that the Dracongield was harmless. He turned one last time to Elgo. “My Lord Prince . . .” The Armsmaster’s voice fell silent, waiting for an answer to his unspoken appeal.

  But Elgo shook his head, No, and in the pitching ship, Ruric stumbled away toward the bow, doom in his eyes.

  “Aid him, Pwyl,” Elgo bade the healer, “aid him if you can.” And Pwyl followed after.

  Marching swiftly away like some strange moving wall, the howling storm passed from them; quickly the hammering wind and scourging rain died, leaving an eerie calm behind, though the seas ran nearly as high. And the sky above rapidly cleared to reveal a nearly three-quarter Moon shining brightly down; all around them in the distance spun a great dark encirclement; to the fore, abeam, and aft, a black wall of clouds juddered widdershins, closer to steerboard than port. Behind—Adon knows how they had managed to stay close—climbing now and then up the crests and into sight, only to disappear down into the troughs again, rode Foamelk and Wavestrider, their storm lanthorns gleaming through the pellucid air.

  And in the relative stillness, Arik cried out, “Keep bailing, lads, we be along the inside skirt of the eye of the storm. Soon it will be upon us again, just as strong as before, and I ween this time it will blow at a different angle.”

  Yet, even though the air was calm, and the reefed wet sail hung slack, still the great waves bore them forward, seemingly at an ever-increasing pace. And in the distance beyond the bow they could hear a strange deep rumbling, a sound of cascading water.

  Swifter and swifter the Dragonboat gained headway, in spite of the fact that the crew did nought. A look of alarm crossed Arik’s features. Desperately, he scanned the sky, looking for a guide star, yet the bright Moon itself blocked off some, and others stood behind the high black circling wall of juddering clouds. Arik turned to his steersman. “Swift now, Njal, what reckon ’ee our position?”

  “Captain, I see no stars to guide us,” answered Njal, “but yon lies an island.”

  As they crested a wave, far off to the port and just visible in the moonlight, Arik could see jutting above the water a great barren stone crag, a bleak rock of an isle with sides plummeting sheer into the crashing waves, and he sucked air hissing between clenched teeth. “Seabanes,” came his dread whisper.

  Whirling rightward, Arik sprang forward, racing down the length of the ship, shoving Men aside, ducking past horses, shoving them as well, and all the while howling nought but a wordless cry.

  And as he reached the bow and leapt upon the thwartplate and clutched the carven Dragon’s brow and pulled himself upward, he could see in the distance ahead a great spinning black funnel pitching down into the depths of the sea.

  And he turned, his eyes wild with terror, shouting to Fjordsmen and Harlingar alike: “Row, ’ee bastards, row, for we be caught in the suck o’ the Maelstrom!”

  At first the Men did not understand what it was that Arik had cried, but then he came back the length of the ship, cursing and yelling orders, telling them what lay ahead. And all the while the Longwyrm gained speed, hurling at a quickening pace toward a watery doom, toward the great whirlpool sucking endlessly at the sky, while all about them in the distance spun a high black wall of clouds, storm and sea alike churning leftward . . . widdershins.

  And overhead on its endless course the silent Moon gazed down.

  Swiftly now, oars were unshipped from the trestles and fitted through the rowing ports, Fjordsmen hurriedly barking out instructions to the Harlingar; for the battle-thinned ranks of the ship’s crew were not enough to man all stations, and the Vanadurin would have to fill in for those who had fallen to the Jutes.

  From the stern sounded a Fjordhorn as Arik signalled the boats behind, t
hen grabbed an axe and chopped through the ropes towing the sea anchors.

  And ahead, the roar of Maelstrom grew ever louder.

  To the beat of a timbrel the Men began rowing, the Vanadurin awkward at first but gaining skill with every stroke.

  Plsh! slapped the oars into the rolling waves, the steerboard hard over, attempting to guide them away.

  And behind came Foamelk and Wavestrider, oars out and stroking; but like the Longwyrm ahead of them, they too were caught in the currents of the immense whirlpool, currents even now swinging the boats along the turning rim of an enormous black spinning vortex that roared down into the very ebon depths of Hèl.

  And the eye of the encircling storm churned about them, black clouds hurling around the distant dark perimeter.

  Hurricane and Maelstrom, two raw forces of a savage world, each a spinning doom, yet neither deflecting nor even affecting the other: the vast cyclone steadily stalking northeastward, paying no heed to the ravening mouth insatiably swallowing the Boreal Sea; the mighty whirlpool endlessly drawing the roaring ocean into its abyssal gut without regard to the ravaging whirling wind.

  And caught within this elemental fury like insignificant wooden chips came three Dragonboats, spinning ’round the twisting hole in the sea, futile oars beating out a grim tattoo of death.

  Plsh! Pltt!

  “Row, ’ee sea dogs, row!” Arik’s voice could be but barely heard above the roaring gurge. “Row or we’re all gone to a churning Hèl!”

  Splsh! Splt!

  Elgo stood beside Reynor, both on the same oar, corded muscles standing out in bold relief as they hove the blade to a furious beat, working synchronistically.

  In ship’s center the tightly bunched steeds squealed in panic, shoving against the closely spaced oaken penning poles, rearing up and crashing down upon one another, biting and kicking, forelegs climbing upon the strakes and wales in their fear, the roaring Maelstrom more than they could bear. Some fell to the deck and were trampled to death, two ponies among these. Yet, not a Man could help them, for all the Men were busy stroking the oars.

  Nay! Not all! For Elgo looked up with his one eye to see Ruric at the Dracongield, hurling treasure overboard, wordlessly shouting.

  The Prince reached Ruric just as the Armsmaster scooped up a small silver horn to fling into the sea, and Elgo’s fist crashed into Ruric’s jaw, dropping him like a felled steer, the horn blanging down to the deck beside the unconscious Man.

  And the wall of the hurricane strode ever closer. And the funnel of the Maelstrom pitched ever steeper, the boats sliding down the steadily increasing slope of the spinning black throat.

  And great suckered tentacles, malignantly glowing with a ghastly phosphorescence, came looping out of the churn, grasping at the sides of the Dragonboats. Men yelled and drew back, and some hammered at the hideous tendrils, using whatever came to hand. A huge slimy arm wrapped about steersman Njal, and he was wrenched overboard, his screams lost in the thunder of the whirl. And behind, monstrous tentacles, burning with the cold daemonfire of the deeps, reached up and grasped a ship, and Wavestrider was crushed and pulled under, Men, horses, treasure, all dragged to a spinning watery doom.

  And the Moon disappeared in the howling black wall of the storm as the edge of the eye passed over the Maelstrom, the whelming wind and hurtling rain catching up to the Dragonboats once more.

  “Bend sail, by damn, bend sail!” cried Arik, shoving Men toward the mast, as the last glimmer of Foamelk’s storm-lanterns disappeared down into the raging abyss below, the sistership swallowed by the bellowing doom.

  And in the twisting churn, the square-cut sail of the last of the Dragonboats was set into the teeth of the hurricane, the slender whisker pole guided to catch the elemental violence.

  “Hold, damn ’ee, hold,” Arik gritted through clenched teeth, now haling the steerboard hard over as scourging rain hurtled through the blackness to lash upon them all, the raider Captain cursing and praying at one and the same time for both mast and canvas to bear the shriek, that neither timber shiver nor cloth rend in the blast.

  And riding the wild winds of a savage hurricane, up and out of the ravening maw of the whirling Maelstrom came the Longwyrm, pulling free of the roaring suck, pulling up and out from a churning mouth that ne’er before had been cheated of its intended victim, cheated by a raw rage shrieking o’er the waves. Up and out came the ship and over the twisting rim, hurled by an elemental fury into the wrath beyond.

  And driven before a howling wind, the benumbed survivors fled onward through a vast darkness across a storm-tossed sea, bearing the remains of a great treasure trove, a hoard of Dracongield.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Homecoming

  Winter, Spring, Summer, Early Fall, 3E1601

  [Last Year]

  Snow scrutching under her feet, Elyn made her way across the assembly grounds toward the main hall of the garrison. Overhead the auroral lights bled bloody red again, as they had done off and on since Year’s Long Night, fueling talk of ill omens and dire fortunes. Around her, wooden palisades stood starkly in the darkness, their sharpened ends jutting upwards, clawing at the scarlet light above. To fore, side, and rear, long low buildings squatted blackly, log sided and sod roofed: barracks, stables and smithy, store-houses, and such. Straight ahead, yellow lamplight streamed through the oiled skins covering the windows of the common building, her goal. As she stepped inside, shutting the heavy wooden door behind, Men turned, their voices falling silent. The Princess made her way toward the head table, joining Brude, commander of this outpost along the Kathian border. Slowly the conversation resumed as she threaded among the warriors, finally coming to her place. Brude, a stocky, muscular Man in his forties, glanced up as she seated herself, his look wary. The commander had been troubled at the thought of a Woman joining the ranks of his garrison, a Princess at that. She had come in the late fall, just ere the snows had flown, a Warrior Maiden, she had said—all had heard of her training, and of her exploits ’gainst the Naudron—to learn more of her craft, she had said. Uneasily Brude had accepted her—in truth he had no choice, for Aranor himself had sent her. But she had proved to be a true Warrior Maid, quick of mind and of arms, her skills equal to or better than that of his best. Even so, still it was hard to accept that a female shared duty along this restless marge, no matter what her lineage or skills might be.

  As she sat and was served a meal by the kitchen crew, from out of the hum of conversation she could pick a phrase or two, and she noted that once again the talk turned to the blood-red werelights in the sky above:

  An ill omen for someone. . . .

  Perhaps for the King. . . .

  Nay, not just the King; ’tis an ill omen for the whole of Jord. . . .

  Aye, it means killing and Death and War. . . .

  “I see that disaster strikes again tonight,” Elyn said to Brude, breaking a piece of bread from the loaf.

  “Mock not the high winter light, Princess, for at times it does indeed foretell what is to come.” The commander took a mouthful of stew, his eyes losing focus as his mind turned inward upon his memories as he chewed and swallowed. “There was the red warning three years apast when Tamar attacked. And many is the bard’s tale of hidden messages written in the lights for Man to puzzle out.”

  “Perhaps so, Commander Brude,” responded the Princess, “yet I have not the skill to read such arcane writings, and neither do I think has any man jack among us.”

  “Many nights, now, the sky has dripped red,” growled Brude, still lost in his thoughts. “Each night I have set an extra watch along the walls, expecting an attack. Yet none has come, no matter what say the lights above.”

  “If they do be omens, Commander,” mused Elyn, “perhaps their secrets could be delved if only we knew for whom the messages are intended.”

  Brude had no response, and they ate awhile in silence, conversation abuzz all about them. At last the commander cleared his throat. “Spring will be here soon, Princess�
�another thirty days or so. Another shift of troops will come in with the flowering of the blooms. I would ask you to wait a fortnight beyond their arrival, then would I have you take charge of those returning through these wild lands to the main garrison.”

  Elyn’s heart leapt to her mouth. He expects me, a Warrior Maiden, to lead the Men home! My own command! A far cry from being a courier, a scout. Ah, but my own command. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Brude. “Commander, I accept; and I am gratified by your trust.”

  That night, Elyn and Brude pored over maps of the region as well as maps of the lands between the outpost and Jordkeep:

  “This route is straightest, Princess, yet you would have to pass through Render’s Col, and a better place for an ambush has ne’er been seen. Now by this way”—Brude’s stubby finger traced a course across the chart—“there are no easy places for ambushes to lie, yet there is the Little Grey, and in springtime its waters roar along the banks faster than a horse can run, they say, though I misdoubt it.”

  “What about the way I came?” asked Elyn, her own finger moving across the map.

  “You came in the fall, my Lady,” answered Brude, “but in the snowmelt and spring rains, these cliffs become laden with water, and mud slides roar down the slopes.”

  Brude and Elyn stood in silence, gazing at the maps. “It be your first command, Warrior Maid,” said Brude at last. “What be your choice?”

  Elyn’s answer was a long time coming, yet at last she responded: “I cannot do aught about snow melt and spring rains, nor about raging rivers and sliding mud. But ambushes I understand, and to be forewarned is to be fore-armed. I would choose Render’s Col as my route, and defang any ambuscade ere it had a chance to be sprung.”