At Brude’s grin, Elyn knew that she had passed her first test of command.
Long into the night they planned, the experienced Brude giving canny Elyn his advice, in turn delighting at her apt turn of mind. Yet there came a time that Brude yawned and stretched. “Ah me, my Lady, but this old warrior needs his rest. I know that you would rather decide all things this very nighttide, every question answered, each plan complete, but we must needs get some sleep. Fear not, Warrior Maid, we shall speak at length many times ere you depart.”
Scrutching through the snow on her way back to her quarters, Elyn was deep in contemplation, reflecting upon all that she and Brude had said. Suddenly, she shivered, and Elgo’s face came unbidden to her mind, wrenching her out of the tracks of her thoughts, her heart hammering wildly, as if a doom faced not only her twin, but all of Jord as well. And without conscious volition, she looked upward, and still the werelight in the skies above bled a ruddy red.
At last spring came, with snowmelt and rain and flowers in its train, followed swift upon by the arrival of the relief. No trouble had been encountered by them in Rendor’s Col, yet along this marge of Kath, trouble could come at any time.
Elyn had made final her plans, consulting with Brude every step of the way. Two Lieutenants were selected from among those returning warriors who would ride in her care, and they joined in the deliberations. At last all was deemed accounted for, and two weeks later, the column of fifty set forth for Aranor’s holt, Elyn of Jord at its head. She had gone to the garrison as a scout and messenger, and now returned as a fledgling commander.
Slowly through the upland hill country they wended: warriors, horses, pack mules. And ranging far ahead and aflank fared the outriders, the scouts. Spring rain beat down upon them all, and everywhere they looked, green sprigs of an awakening land greeted them. And in spite of the cold downpour, Elyn’s heart sang with the turn of the season.
Four days they rode ere coming into the jagged lands, their course restricted ever more by the crags about them. They were aiming for the slot of Render’s Col, a slot leading down unto the wide grassy plains of Jord. Still the chill rain fell about them, and they wearied of its incessant beat. But, as the col, with its cover of tangled forest, hove into sight, hearts beat all the quicker, and breath came in shorter gasps. The close-set trees were still barren in their winter dress; even so, the crags were so thickly wooded that an entire army could lie concealed within, foliage or no.
“Galdor, take your four and scour the left; Brenden, you and yours take the right.” Elyn but repeated what everyone knew, yet somehow her crisp words fell fresh upon heightened senses as the plan unfolded.
Into the slot rode the ten Harlingar, splitting in twain and fading into the bare-branched woods thickset upon either side. Now the main column paced forth, bows at the ready, spears, sabers, long-knives at hand. Slowly they stepped along the way, and Elyn could now see just why this was called Render’s Col.
Into the gap they rode, and around them the crags loomed threateningly, the trees clawing at the wet sky above. And now and again Elyn could see one or more of the scouts, and they used hand signals to note that all was well.
Down the length of the pass they fared and out; no ambuscades were set this rainy day.
At one and the same time, Elyn felt both relieved and disappointed: relived that no foe lay in wait; disappointed that no foe lay in wait. As Galdor and Brenden rejoined the column, Elyn thought, This must be as much of War is: that careful plans are laid for which there is no execution; that stratagems are conceived which are never used.
Before them, beyond a long series of down-stepping hill-sides, they could see the great Jordian oceans of grass, still yellow from the long winter sleep, yet patches of green even now mottling the ’scape. And down into this great wide land rode the column of Vanadurin.
“What? Gone to face Sleeth? When?” It was early evening, and Elyn sat before a warming fire with her sire, Aranor. She had arrived at the castle but moments before, and had been greeted with open arms by the King. He had drawn her into his private quarters, travel stains and mud-splatters notwithstanding, shouting for the servants to bring food and drink, and to summon Arianne and Mala. And when she had asked about Elgo, that was when she had discovered that her brother fared on a mission to slay Sleeth.
“Aye, Daughter, he’s gone on that mission of his,” said Aranor, pouring a goblet of wine, mulling it with spices and a hot iron from the fire, handing it to Elyn.
“But a Dragon, Father, a Dragon!” exclaimed Elyn. “Ruric told us long ago that no Man has e’er slain one. Has Elgo gone mad?”
Aranor laughed. “Nay, Daughter, not mad. List, Elgo’s plan be sound, for it is the very hand of Adon, Himself, that will strike the Drake down.”
“But Ruric said—” Elyn began.
“Ruric fares with him,” interrupted Aranor. “He agrees that Elgo and his Warband will succeed. And so do I. Hai, Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom!” Aranor quaffed his own goblet in salute to his son.
Servants bustled in with food and drink, while Elyn’s thoughts whirled. “What do you mean, Father, that Adon, Himself, will strike the Drake down? How can that be?”
And as Elyn sat and listened, King Aranor explained Elgo’s plan. And during the telling, fair Arianne, Elgo’s wife, entered the room bearing Bram and sat quietly, rocking her sleeping baby.
“. . . And so you see, Daughter, he had to leave ere now to be at Blackstone at Mid-Year’s Day, when the Sun rides the sky longest.” Aranor leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his white-streaked coppery hair—he was a Man now in his late fifties, yet still slim and hale and fit. “By Kalgalath, I would have gone, too, but someone needs must run the Kingdom.”
Elyn noted for the first time that Arianne and Bram were in the room, the wee bairn now aslumber upon the soft cushions of a nearby window seat, the exquisite Arianne sitting pensively, her long wheaten hair falling down o’er eyes the color of a pale blue sky. And Elyn stood and embraced her brother’s wife, feeling Arianne’s tiny frame trembling in fear. “Worry not, my sister,” whispered Elyn, “ ’tis a good plan Elgo follows. List, he would have taken me had I been here in time.”
Spring came green and stepped into summer, and Elyn could often be found afield with Arianne and Bram, flying Redwing, the hawk she had raised from a chick. At times Mala and others accompanied them, for Mala was an avid falconer, and in spite of her disapproving nature, she often contributed greatly to the training of hunting birds. And when it came to these excursions out upon the wide grassy plains, Bram was a delight, and a true son of Elgo, the golden-haired babe now a toddler, gurgling in pleasure at the swooping of the red hawk, uttering a language that he alone understood, while reaching out to grasp at the fierce bird’s plumage. Arianne protected him from himself, speaking to him of talons and beaks. And during these talks he would gaze intently at his mother as if he truly understood, but straightaway would turn and reach out for the bird once more.
On Mid-Year’s Day, a feeling of anxiety ran throughout the castle, for this was the day that Elgo’s plans called for the assault upon Sleeth. Yet there was nought that any could do to ease the tension, except Elyn drilled especially hard at swords that day, causing her opponents to marvel at her skill.
In the dark of the night, Arianne awoke screaming Elgo’s name.
And even though it was now summer, Elyn had the irrational notion that the nighttime skies ran blood red. And she arose from her bed and walked out upon the dark battlements and gazed at the starry skies above, as if seeking omens in its wheeling pattern. No aurora ran scarlet overhead, though a spate of falling stars streaked upon fiery golden tails across the startled heavens.
Summer slowly waned, stepping toward autumn, and still no word came from Skaldfjord. And some petitioned the King to send a scout, a herald, a representative of some kind to seek news, Arianne among these. “If we’ve not heard by autumn’s coming, then will I send an emissary,” was his reply.
Redwing swooped and glided through the high blue sky, his calls skreeing down to those below. Bram laughed to see the bird plummet in a stoop, plunging toward the earth to bring down game. Kyla, Arianne, and Elyn sat upon a cloth spread o’er grass and nibbled at their meal, while Mala stood nearby and watched the flying hunter, the leather hawking gauntlet upon her right arm. The bird pulled up short from his dive, the quarry gone to earth, Redwing hurtling low across the prairie, Mala’s eye following him for a while, but then coming to a stop as movement afar arrested her sight.
“Hmmp,” growled Mala, “now who could that be? Men on horseback. Waggons too.”
Elyn stood and shaded her eyes and gazed, counting—“Eleven at most, I make it: nine horses mounted, two wains driven”—also wondering at what small band it might be in the distance, making their way southeasterly toward the castle. But then she espied a jet-black steed, and a white-speckled roan as well. “Arianne!” she cried. “ ’Tis Elgo! And Ruric!”
Flinging herself upon her horse, Wind, Elyn spurred toward the distant column, shouting and hallooing as she went, racing at a Hèlbent gallop. Behind came Arianne, her milk-white horse swift as well.
And breaking away from the column came three, Elgo and Ruric and Reynor, racing toward the twain. And the horses skidded to a halt out upon the prairie, the riders stopping and dismounting at one and the same time. And Arianne flung herself into Elgo’s arms, while Elyn hugged them both, and Ruric and Reynor as well.
And Elgo clung to Arianne and wept, all the sorrow and mourning for his lost comrades welling up within him in an overwhelming surge at this his homecoming.
Ruric, too, wept, as did they all, Reynor and Elyn and Arianne, for they were home at last.
And Elgo stood before them, his face scarred, a patch upon one eye, and a white streak through his copper hair. But Arianne did not care, for her beloved was back.
It was the first day of autumn.
CHAPTER 18
Black Kalgalath
Late Winter, 3E1602
[This Year]
Black Kalgalath watched the shimmering image approach across the heaving lava pool. Fountains of fire gouted upward, molten rock spewing forth. Still the dark, robed, hooded figure came onward, unaffected by the volcanic blast, striding upon the belch of magma vomiting up from the gut of the world.
Upon the brimstone ledge that formed his flaming dais, Black Kalgalath waited.
At last the Manlike form stood before the Drake, stood upon the seething surface, stood within a very crucible of creation and destruction, as flame and stone united in elemental fury.
“Dark Wyrm,” whispered the visitant—a Man? An Elf? Something else? It mattered not to Kalgalath.
“Andrak,” acknowledged the Dragon. “What brings the great and powerful Andrak into my domain?” Echoes of mocking laughter seemed to ring in Kalgalath’s brazen voice.
Lava heaved, and molten stone gushed upward. Overhead, the incandescent chamber sagged, and a massive stream of fiery magma poured down upon the shadowy intruder, to no effect.
From within the environs of the dark cowl came the whispered response: “Sleeth is dead, Dark Wyrm.”
Belying his great bulk, Black Kalgalath snaked his head down and forward, staring directly into the visitant’s hood, his Drake’s gaze seeking to penetrate the shadows within. But even Dragon eyes could not see what lay inside the cowl. “Dead? Sleeth?—How?”
“The Ban, Dark Wyrm,” hissed Andrak. “Adon’s Ban!” His fists clenched. “Cursed be the day when He set His Ban upon us all, shackling our power.”
“Pah, Wizard!”—Kalgalath’s words clanged—“Your power is limited by the Sun, not mine! My fire burns!” A great blast of flame burst forth from the Drake’s throat, roaring over Andra’s dark form—to no avail, the Mage acknowledging it only by a motion of annoyance.
“Yes, Dark Wyrm,” sissed the Wizard, “your flame burns. And had you joined with your loyal brethren, especially with Daagor, the outcome of the Great War would have been different, and all Drakes would—”
“Silence!” Kalgalath’s great voice clashed forth. “Prattle to me not of how things might have been!”
A hostile stillness stretched taut between Mage and Drake, a silence anchored upon the massive bellow of the lava cauldron. Roaring fountains of liquescent stone vomited upward, slathering both Dragon and Wizard with magma beyond bearing, yet neither took heed.
At last Andrak spoke, whispering: “You can now have Blackstone, Dark Wyrm, a lair befitting a great Drake.”
“Blackstone? I?” Kalgalath’s golden eyes blazed in contempt. “Bah! What need I of such a cold tomb? Look around you, Wizard, and see my magnificent caldera.”
“You have this place only in your dark dreams, Wyrm,” sissed Andrak, waving a negligent hand as if to dismiss the boiling lava cavern. “With Blackstone you would gain a true fortress beyond compare, one you would occupy in the waking world as well.”
“I covet my fire, Mage,” boomed the Dragon, “and in Blackstone it burns too deeply for my etheric self to reach. But here . . .” Kalgalath gestured, five glittering adamantine claws sweeping grandly. A huge burst of lava roared forth from the incandescent wall behind the brimstone ledge, an enormous flaming cataract brightly cascading into the glowing vault.
“Enough, Dark Wyrm, enough. These displays are irksome, and weary me.” Andrak turned as if to go.
Kalgalath said nought, waiting.
As if remembering a stray thought, once more Andrak faced toward the Drake; and unheard echoes of brazen laughter seemed to fill the cavern.
“One thing, Dark Wyrm—” Andrak began.
“The hoard, Mage.” The great Dragon shifted his bulk, his voice tinged with the explanation of the obvious. “Why else would you come?” Again silent mocking reverberated.
Only by the white knuckles of his clenched fists did the robed Magician in the dark cowl show his anger, yet after but a moment did he master his ire, his hands relaxing open. “Why indeed, Wyrm. Why else indeed,” came the hissing admission.
“Who has it, and what trifling do you want?” Black Kalgalath turned his head, his golden gaze watching magma heave and spew.
“It is but a small, insignificant item, Dark Wyrm,” whispered the Mage, his unseen eyes studying the back of his hand.
“Hah!” Kalgalath boomed. “Insignificant? Nay, Mage. Never would you ask for such. Instead it would be an item to hold sway over others. A power token, let us say. Or better yet, a feartoken.”
“Mayhap, Dark Wyrm,” sissed Andrak, “yet that is a minor price to pay for such a hoard as Sleeth’s.”
“Describe the token, Wizard.” Kalgalath’s voice took on a tone that said he grew tired of this tit-for-tat game.
“It is nought but a small silver horn, Wyrm,” whispered Andrak. “Seemingly Dwarven made. Runes carven on its bell, twined with riders on horseback racing among the glyphs.”
“Know you that this token lies within the hoard?” Now Kalgalath peered intently at the Mage. “For if it does not then the hoard becomes mine with nought owed you.”
There was a long pause as Andrak considered Kalgalath’s words. “No, Wyrm, I cannot say for certain that it lies within the hoard. The horn was hidden away long ago—in Blackstone, it is believed. Yet perhaps not. But if so, it could have been part of the hoard. Too, some of the treasure was lost, and now lies at the bottom of the sea, and mayhap the horn was among that which sank. But if it is with the remainder of the hoard—”
“Fear not, Mage; if it is there, then I will bring it to you, though I claim the rest of the treasure as mine for this deed I do.” Kalgalath again snaked his head down to confront the dark figure. “Did I not bring you the Kammerling?”
“Yes, Wyrm,” hissed Andrak. “And I ward it well. None shall gain it to come seeking you.”
“As I remember our bargain, Wizard, you were to guard the Kammerling, and in return I would hold your true name secret.” Kalgalath arched his mighty ne
ck, peering down at the Mage from a great height. Behind the Drake, fire poured forth from molten stone wall to meet like flame spewing up from below. “Hence, as I see it, we each hold that which could slay the other. A fair compact, I would deem.”
“Nay, Wyrm, not so fair,” sissed Andrak, “for I must deal with those champions who come seeking the Rage Hammer, whereas you must merely keep silent.”
Again, though all was still, soundless brazen echoes of mirth seemed to ring out from the Drake, and waves of ire beat forth from the Mage.
Finally: “We dally, Wizard, and speak of bargains long past struck.” Kalgalath’s glittering eye fixed upon the shadowy figure. “Who has the hoard, and where?”
“The Harlingar, the Vanadurin,” came the whispered reply. “At the keep of Aranor, upon the Steppes of Jord. ’Twas Aranor’s son, Elgo, who tricked Sleeth into the Sun that slew him.”
“A Man?” Kalgalath’s voice held true surprise.
“A Vanadurin warrior, Dark Wyrm,” sissed Andrak. “He slew Sleeth and took the treasure as his own.”
Kalgalath’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “For his presumption, this Elgo, I will take lives as well as the hoard.”
The great Drake then lay his massive head down upon the flaming ledge, his eyes closed; no longer did he seem to note the presence of the Mage.
Long moments passed, while molten stone frothed and spumed.
“When?” hissed Andrak.
“When I deem,” replied Kalgalath. His eyes remained closed.
Finally, the dark figure turned and walked away from the mighty Dragon’s burning throne. Lava heaved and magma burst forth; molten fountains of flaming stone roared upward, meeting fiery cataracts of melted rock cascading down into the bellowing inferno. Andrak paid it no heed as he strode across the churning surface.
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