Slowly the dark figure diminished in the distance, until at last it was gone.
CHAPTER 19
The Claim
Winter, Early Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
Like wildfire, word of the Slaying of Sleeth spread throughout Jord, and then beyond: into Aven and Riamon and Naud and Kath, and across their far borders as well. Travellers carried the tale: traders, hunters, folk on journeys to see relatives and loved ones. Wherever people fared, they carried the story with them, a story that grew with the telling until it no longer resembled the truth.
There came a howling brumal day that a half-frozen young Man rode through the flinging snow and into the bailey. Guards pulled him from his winter-shagged horse, for he could not dismount on his own, so cold was he. His steed was taken to the stable as the Man himself was led into the warmth of the garrison quarters. And when they had peeled him out of his frozen cloak and had thawed the ice from his hair and eyebrows and beard, they found a handsome youth from the Realm of Pellar. Black was his hair and brown his eyes, and he was as lean as a hungry Wolf. Estor was his name, and he was a bard, and even in the depth of winter he had come unto Jord to seek the roots of truth in this remarkable tale of Men who had slain a Dragon. And after some time he was escorted into the presence of the Prince, and the singer could see for himself the black eye patch and acid-wrought scarring of the Jordian heir, as well as the white streak through Elgo’s coppery hair, a streak said to have appeared when the Longwyrm had become caught in the vortex of the Maelstrom.
Long was he closeted with Elgo, learning the tale. Yet this was not a one-sided exchange, for Elgo learned from Estor that the Jutlander fleet pursuing Arik had perished in the fury of the hurricane, all ships lost; hence it would be many a long year ere the Jutlanders recovered, many a year ere they and the Fjordsmen would clash again to perhaps settle their blood feud once and for all.
Too, Estor spoke at length with the other survivors—Ruric, Reynor, Young Kemp, Pwyl, Arlan, and five more . . . forty had ridden forth with Elgo, ten had returned—from whom he gleaned additional details of the story.
And he saw for himself the treasure trove, marvelling that this was but a third of Sleeth’s hoard. And it was all there, all that remained of the great finding—all, that is, but for a small silver horn taken by Bram the day of Elgo’s return, for the wee bairn had clutched the shiny trump, refusing to give it over to Mala for inspection; Elgo had laughed, saying that his son would be a better treasure hunter than any that had come before him—it was the first time that humor had visited Elgo since setting eye upon the hoard—and Bram was allowed to keep the small argent clarion.
And as Estor viewed the trove, Ruric hung back. For the Armsmaster was yet ashamed of his behavior upon the Longwyrm, though others had long since forgiven him—for his head had been nigh cracked open by the fall ’gainst the oar trestle, and he knew not nor did he even remember that which he had done. Even so, Ruric confessed to Estor that he still held to his basic beliefs: “. . . Mark me, young bard, Dracongield carries a curse—all Dragonhoards bear curses—yet in spite o’ them, Men and heroes will ever covet Dragontroves, as well as other legendary treasures; and our success at slaying a Cold-drake will lead many a would-be paladin to gi’ over his life chasing after some will-o’-the-wisp fable, snatching ever after for some touch o’ glory. Aye, they all carry curses, be it Dracongield or faerygield or legendary artifact.
“But curse or no, still I should ha’e followed the lead o’ my Prince, instead o’ casting gold into the sea, or so ’tis they tell me I tried.”
And Estor spent long weeks closeted with his lute, at last coming to Aranor and asking to sing at the evening meal.
The hall was crowded unto near bursting that night, all waiting to hear the bard. Extra tables and benches had been placed ’round the room, each filled to capacity. Servants rushed thither and yon, filling mugs and goblets, bearing trays laden with food. Aranor sat at the head table, and at his side were Elgo and Elyn, as well as Arianne and Mala. Too, Kyla and Darcy and Elise were in attendance, and Ruric and Reynor and Pwyl and Arlan and Young Kemp and the others of those who had survived the Dragon-slaying quest.
And there came a time when Estor stood, and slowly the hall fell quiet as the bard softly tuned his lute. When all was silent, the young Man looked to King Aranor, receiving a nod to begin. And then it was that the lean poet gave voice to his song, Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom: Down from the Steppes of Jord they came,
Their numbers, all told, forty-one,
Fire in their eyes, flame in their hearts,
Their spirits, ablazing, did burn.
Dragonboats skimming o’er the waves,
Wild Wolves running asea,
Swiftly o’er the sapphire tides,
Before them the wind did flee.
Down through a stony land they fared,
To come to a Dragon’s lair,
Long was the day, strong was the Sun,
Blackstone, ’tis Blackstone, beware.
Into the dark holt heart they strode,
Armed with a bright cunning plan.
Quick was their labor, swift their deeds,
Setting the trap of the Ban.
Soon all was ready, the time at hand,
And after Sleeth ten fared,
Seeking, searching, unwinding a maze,
Into the blackness they dared.
Deep in the darkness, sleeping on gold,
They found his ophidian lair,
Savage his waking, deadly his welcome,
Of ten there survived but a pair.
Swift did they fly, even though wounded,
Luring the Cold-drake behind.
Sure were their steps, running on arrows,
Even though one was half blind.
Into the chamber roared the grim Dragon,
The dashing brave warriors ahead,
Down came the canvas, letting in daylight,
To smite the vile Cold-drake dead.
Elgo, Prince Elgo, victorious,
His eye lost to Drake’s dire spume,
His cunning defeated a Dragon,
Elgo, Prince Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.
Gathering up the great treasure,
Back o’er the dark seas they came,
Mighty, the storm whelmed upon them,
Driving them toward the sea’s bane.
Into the roaring suck they were drawn,
Three ships bearing Dracongield,
Vile Hèlarms clutched upon them,
And many brave warriors were felled.
One Dragonboat escaped the vortex,
One ship fled the sea bane,
One ship won free of the Maelstrom,
Riding a wild hurricane.
Mayhap a curse lies on Dracongield.
Mayhap ’tis a saying to be spurned.
Yet think on this when considering:
Forty-one rode out, eleven returned.
And then there be the great Dragonships,
Each a Fjordsman’s pride;
Do there be a curse on Dracongield?
Four set forth, one survived.
Curse or no, a Dragon was slain,
A deed of derring-do,
The Men who did it will live forever,
Would that I had gone, too.
Yet none would have fared on this venture
Had there not been a daring plan,
Clever and bold to slay Dragon old,
The thought of a single Man.
Elgo, Prince Elgo, victorious,
Eye lost to Drake’s dire spume,
His cunning defeated a Dragon,
Elgo, Prince Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.
When the song came to its end, at first all in the hall was quiet, except for some who wept, and Estor’s heart fell. But then a thunderous cheering broke out, cups banging upon wooden table. And ’midst the roaring applause, Prince Elgo called the singer to him and placed upon his arm a golden torque, saying, “Make c
ertain that Trent the Bard hears this song of yours, Estor.”
Glancing up from the rich reward, the young minstrel gazed upon the tear-wet cheek of the Prince. “But, Sire, Trent no longer lifts his voice in tale telling and saga singing. He has retired from the courtly life and has removed himself to a small cote. He no longer sings.”
“Nevertheless, Estor, carry it to his ears,” Elgo commanded, “for I would have him hear it—especially him—and he will know why.”
Puzzled, Estor bowed to the one-eyed Prince, promising that he would bear the tale, the song, unto Trent. And then the calls for another rendition of his ballade became too demanding to ignore, and so, saluting Elgo, Estor took up his lute and placed his back against the very stone pillar where another bard had once stood singing of the same Dragon, yet this time, none laughed at Elgo. And the young bard sang his song once more.
And again . . .
And again . . .
And . . .
In fact, Estor sang his saga many times that night. And in the months and years and centuries to come, it would prove to be one of the most enduring ballades to be carolled and chanted by bards throughout Mithgar.
And from that first night forward and thereafter, Elgo became known as Sleeth’s Doom, a name to live in legend throughout time.
Deep in the Châkkaholt of Kachar word came as the dregs of winter stirred among the mountains of the Grimwall: Sleeth is dead. Blackstone is free.
And in this stone cavern, sitting in a side chair drawn up before the throne of Brak was Tarken the trader, bearer of the news. “Aye, DelfLord,” affirmed the aging Châk merchant, “that is the whole tale. Sleeth, they say, is dead. Slain by Elgo, Prince of the Vanadurin. Tricked the Drake into Adon’s light, he did, or so they say.”
“And you are certain about Blackstone?” Brak stroked his forked black beard, his dark eyes glinting in the phosphorescent glow of high-bracketed Châkka lanterns, the DelfLord no more than one hundred fifty years old, a powerful Dwarf in his prime.
“As certain as may be, what with the tales I heard. Blackstone is free, as far as any know,” responded Tarken, turning at the sound of footsteps ringing on stone as two sturdy Châk warriors strode into the chamber.
“Baran, Thork,” called out Brak, waving the pair inward, “I would have you hear the news Tarken brings.” And as the twain stepped unto the throne, the DelfLord growled, “These are my sons, Tarken.” Yet, in spite of his gruff tone, Brak’s eyes shone with pride.
And proud he should be, for the two were strong of limb and clear of gaze, and bore themselves with grace and power. Black were their hair and beards and eyes, and in this they were like unto their sire. Too, they carried an air of command about them, and Tarken knew that many would follow either one of them into the very jaws of Hèl if they but commanded it. Dressed in dark leathers ’neath black-iron chain shirts, each bore a thong-slung axe upon his back, ready for use. Baran was the elder of the two, some five years Thork’s senior. Yet as to which seemed to lead and which to follow, it was not certain.
Each bowed stiffly to the white-bearded trader clothed in shades of green, and Tarken got up from his seat and returned the courtesy.
“What is this I hear about Sleeth?” queried Baran.
“And Blackstone?” added Thork.
Tarken’s laughter barked forth. “Hah! The cubs are like unto their badger sire, Brak: right to the business at hand.”
“What else would you have, old trader,” grinned Brak, “pussyfooting Elves?”
Again, footsteps rang upon stone, bringing several Châkka into the chamber. Brak motioned everyone to a great table sitting in the alcove behind the throne, and quickly every seat was filled as more of the forked-bearded folk arrived in answer to the DelfLord’s summons. A hum of conversation murmured about the room, all talk centered upon the news carried in by the white-bearded merchant and his band of traders.
Finally, Brak, seated at the head of the table, held up his hands for quiet. As soon as silence reigned, he spoke: “I have called you all together so that we may speak upon the remarkable tidings borne to us by Tarken. When he has finished, then will we decide upon our course of action.” Brak motioned for the trader to speak.
Shoving back his chair, the white-bearded Dwarf stood at his place at the table. Slowly his eye swept across the council members, as if gauging their worth. Apparently satisfied, his rich voice spoke: “We were in the Realm of Aven, in the city of Dendor, trading jade carvings at the citadel, at the Aven court of Corbin, for it had been a year since Randall the old King died, and the period of mourning was over.
“While there, a bard came out of Jord, putting up at the Red Lion, where my own party was quartered. This bard sang for his supper and lodgings, and his song was of Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.
“Many were the rumors of Sleeth’s death, but most were flights of sheer fancy—tales saying such things as the Vanadurin Prince had strangled the Drake bare-handed, that Elgo had cut the Dragon down with a magic sword, that the Harlingar had caused the Cold-drake to choke on its own spit.
“Yet these many rumors had a common thread, for they all told that it was Elgo, the Vanadurin Prince, who had slain Sleeth. And now this bard—coming from Jord, from the Land of the Harlingar—now this bard sang of the slaying of Sleeth . . . and, by Adon, Sleeth could have been brought down just as the bard claimed.
“Tricked into the Sun, the bard would have it, slain by the hand of Adon. The Ban itself doing the deed, once the Drake was exposed.
“Long did I talk with this minstrel, Estor by name, and he said that he had come from the court of Aranor, that he had spoken with Elgo and the survivors of that raid into Blackstone”—here at the mention of that ancient Châkkaholt there was a stir among the council members—“and that not only did they slay the Cold-drake, but they recovered the hoard as well.”
An uproar burst forth from the assembled Dwarves, some shouting cries of Looters! and Defilers! and others hammering fists in outrage upon the table.
Brak raised his hands for quiet, but it came not. Taking the axe from Baran, the DelfLord thunderously slammed the flat of the blade to the table, and an instant silence crashed into the room. For long moments Brak angrily eyed all in the chamber, then turned once more to Tarken, his words taking on a meaningful stress. “Was everything recovered?”
“Mayhap, DelfLord,” answered Tarken, “yet according to Estor the bard, a full two thirds of the trove lies at the bottom of the Boreal Sea, sucked down the churning funnel of the Great Maelstrom.”
Again an uproar broke out among the assembled Châkka, yet this time Brak let it run its course, while he sat in deep thought. After long moments he held up his hands, and turned to the white-bearded trader once more. “Had this bard any proof of what he claims?”
“I asked him the same, Lord Brak,” responded Tarken, “and he offered but two things: his sworn word as a bard, and a golden torque given over to him by Elgo. On his word as a bard we can depend, and I for one believe him.”
Many in the Council nodded in agreement, for the sworn word of a bard was legendary for its verity.
Brak raised his voice above the hum of conversation, garnering all attention. “Have you aught else to say, Tarken?”
The white-bearded trader shook his head No.
Brak’s eye then swept the chamber. “We have all heard the words of Tarken; can any add to what he has said? . . . No? . . . Then let us consider the issues that lie before us, and delve the course ahead.”
Long did the Dwarves review the matters at hand, debating key points, arguing, sometimes heatedly, over what to do. In the end, Brak summed up their deliberations: “These are the two key points: First, we must send a delegation to Jord, to the castle of Aranor, under a flag of negotiation to lay claim upon the trove. Second, while that mission goes forth, we need prepare to send a mission west, through Aven and Riamon and across the Crestan Pass through Rell and Rhone and into Rian to come at last unto Blackstone, to reclaim that
ancient Châkkaholt and make of it a mighty Realm as of eld; in this we can call for the aid of our brethren in Mineholt North, in the Red Caves, and in mighty Kraggen-cor.”
Brak turned to Baran. “My son, I ask that you head the delegation into Jord. Seek out this Elgo, and press our claim.” Baran nodded sharply.
Brak then turned to Thork. “It is to you, my son, that I entrust the planning of the venture to Blackstone. It will take long to get all in readiness, yet I would have you arrange these matters. When the time comes, we will choose those who will take on the burden of the long march, but much must needs be planned ere we reach the point of selecting those who will rebuild the Châkkaholt of the Rigga.” Thork inclined his head in assent, though it was plain for all to see that he would rather accompany his brother in the legation to Jord.
It was early spring, and once again Elyn was out upon the plains flying Redwing, the hawk swooping, his calls skreeing o’er the wide prairie, the hunter seeking prey hidden down within the sea of greening grass blowing in the gentle breeze, the air still moist from the snowmelt and scented with the promise of new life. Upward spiralled the raptor, seeking new heights, Elyn’s heart urging the red hawk higher. Fluffy white clouds sailed serenely across the wide blue sky, and it seemed as if Redwing would mount up beyond even these. Yet of a sudden the bird stooped, wings folded, except for now and again when a flick of a tip guided the plummeting hunter toward a target Elyn could not see. And in a flurry of wings and feathers and talons, the hawk disappeared down within the winter-yellow veld.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 19