Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “By Hèl, Ruric,” exploded Elgo, “is that what you think this is all about? These Dwarves demanding our treasure? Pride? The pride of a Prince?”

  “Nay, my Lord,” answered Ruric, undaunted by Elgo’s outburst. “The Dwarves be wrong, make no mistake, for they abandoned that accursed gold long ago. E’en so, ’twould serve them right if we merely gave it to them; then ’twould be theirs to deal wi’ the bane o’ it. Nay, my proud Prince, ’tis not the Dwarves’ demand I fret o’er; ’tis instead yer temper concerns me. Let not yer prideful ways gain the upper hand in the days ahead, for if they do, then I tell ye now as I ha’e told ye in the past, yer temper will surely carry ye to defeat.”

  Elgo rode in silence for a long while ere responding to Ruric’s words: “Old Wolf, mayhap you be right about my ‘prideful ways,’ my ‘prideful temper,’ and mayhap you even be right about a bane on the trove, though I misdoubt it, but by damn, these Dwarves do get in my craw, and I’ll rot in Hèl ere I let them have aught of Sleeth’s hoard.”

  Ruric said nought in return, remaining silent as he and the other survivors accompanied the smoldering Prince across the great grasslands of Jord, the Armsmaster hoping that five uneventful days of riding would be enough to cool off Elgo ere they reached the Dwarvenholt of Kachar.

  The column fared easterly for miles as the Sun rode upward across the sky and through the zenith, dropping now toward the western horizon. The land about them slowly changed from prairie to rolling downs, a presaging of the foothills and mountains to come. Now and again an awakening thicket stood across the way, the saplings beginning to green with the quickening of spring, buds slowly swelling, but leaves would not appear for another fortnight or two, depending upon the strength of the Sun. Still, nestled among the grasses, tiny blue flowers peeked out through the winter-yellow blades, heralding the arrival of a new season of growth that would continue until the frosts of fall.

  Night found the Harlingar camped alongside a thickset bare-branched coppice, the horses picketed, a ward posted, and a small fire burning to press back the shadows. They had covered some forty miles of open land that day: a goodly ride, even for the Harlingar.

  As they sat about the blaze, again Elgo spoke of the Dwarves’ claim: “I say to all of you here and now, these grasping Dwarves shall not lay one finger upon any part of the treasure we won. It is ours to do with as we agreed ere we set forth upon our quest. As soon as it is properly assayed, we will divide it into a hundred shares: each of the survivors will receive a share; each of the families of those slain will receive a share; ten shares will go to the Fjordsmen, for in bearing us on our mission, they lost much; the rest will go into the treasury of the Realm of the Jord. But none of it, not a copper, will find its way into the greedy hands of these gluttonous cave dwellers.”

  “My Lord,” spoke up one of the Vanadurin, Brade, a blond youth of twenty years who hailed from northern Jord, “these Dwarves, might not they ride to War with us o’er the Dracongield?”

  “Hah!” snorted Bargo, a red-faced ox of a Man, yellow-bearded, yellow-braided, leaping to his feet and prancing about the campfire, head wobbling and eyes rolling and hands shuddering as if he were a frightened rank beginner attempting to ride a jolting steed. “Ride to War on what? . . . Ponies?”

  Bargo’s jobbernowled pantomime brought forth great guffawing laughter among the Jordians, for the thought of short, forked-bearded folk, charging apace upon horselings was too much to bear in silence. Even somber Ruric laughed, his first in many a month.

  Midmorning of the second day, the column of Harlingar sighted, caught up with, and passed the grey-flagged, pony-mounted Dwarven emissaries, also making their way easterly, returning to Kachar. As Elgo’s Warband rode past, the Dwarves glared at these thieving Riders, receiving like glares in return . . . that is, until Bargo rode alongside the pony train: The oxlike warrior plucked his spear from its sheath and spurred the mount forward, leaning far back over the cantle, with his legs thrust out akimbo. Unsteadily waving his lance in the air while squealing “Ooo! Ooo!” and bouncing all over his saddle, Bargo went jouncing past the Dwarves. The Vanadurin exploded in laughter, while the Dwarven warriors growled in anger, knowing that they had somehow been insulted by this pack of looters, yet not divining the precise meaning of the gibe.

  On the third day, the great grey chain of the Grimwall Mountains rode up over the horizon, looming dark and ominous in the distance, though most peaks were still capped with snow, and would remain so until the height of summer. And all that day the column wended up through the foothills, now faring southeasterly. They were aiming for Kaagor Pass, the very slot where nearly four years past, Elgo had slain Golga the Troll.

  That evening they camped some fifteen miles from the foot of the col. The next day they would press hard to ride completely through the gap among the peaks; for even though it was spring, still the nights were too chill to fare across the range unless there were a driving need—even in the Kaagor Pass, which cut low through the mountains, remaining open nearly all year long.

  At the urging of the Men, Elgo told of his deed: “I had always heard that Trolls were nearly unkillable, though there are tales of wondrous Elven weapons slicing through their stone-like hides as warm knives cutting through butter. And though I had no Elven blade, still, it seemed to me that there must be other ways of slaying these behemoths. So, I rode to the gap in the summer of ninety-nine to set a watch over Golga and see if I could divine a means of ridding the world of his menace.

  “Finding him was easy, for I could ride up to his very doorstep as long as the Sun was in the sky. But I had to be long gone from the entrance to his cave ere night fell, else he would sniff me out and run me down . . . and Shade and I would fill his cooking pot for a number of meals.

  “There was a great round boulder that he used as a door to his lair during the day. I could tell from the scoring on the stone that at night he rolled it aside while hunting for game—deer, mountain goats, wild sheep, a stray merchant train, or other tasty tidbits—and near morning he would return to his hole, haling the great rock back in place.

  “For several days I scouted out the lay of the land, seeking a way to slay the monster. His cave bored into a sheer stone bluff rising up the mountain side. Fifty or sixty feet above was a wide ledge, where I thought I might hide to get a look at Golga. And it was while I was thinking on this that my eye fell upon his door, and suddenly the plan came to me. And for the next fortnight of days, I labored as I’ve never labored before.

  “Finally, all was ready, and I used that day and the next to hunt deer, slaying three all told: the bait for my trap.

  “When night next descended and Golga rolled aside his rock, he found waiting for him three gutted deer, right on his front stoop. He squatted on the spot, sniffing his next meal, perhaps checking for poison.

  “But it wasn’t to the meat that he should have been looking for the trap; instead it was above him, for ’twas then that I rolled a mighty boulder off the ledge to come crashing down atop him. Hai, crunch! went his bones, for e’en a Troll cannot withstand a blow such as that.

  “Well, lads, that was the end of Golga, squashed flat ’neath the boulder that it took me the previous fourteen days to maneuver into position, a labor that nearly killed me with the doing of it.” Elgo’s glittering eye swept across the admiring faces ’round the campfire. “Be there any questions?”

  “Did you explore his cave, my Lord?” asked Roka, stroking his red beard, his own blue eyes glistering in the firelight.

  “I did, and a fouler den you would not wish to see,” answered Elgo, shuddering with the memory of it. “Littered with bones, it was . . . bones of all types . . . things I do not wish to remember. Too, there were crude utensils, and a bed of hides. But nothing of worth. . . . Ah fie, let us speak no further upon it, for it was a most vile place, a place I would rather forget.”

  The next morning the Harlingar rode up into Kaagor Pass, and near the crest they stopped and dismounted, a
nd Elgo pointed out the Troll’s den. Before the black opening lay two halves of a great boulder, split in twain from its shattering fall. Some fifty or so feet above could be seen the lip of the ledge Elgo had used in the slaying of the great Ogru. To one side of the dark hole another boulder stood: Golga’s door. Reynor stepped to the split rock, marvelling at the size of it. How one man could have rolled it into position along the ledge above, the young warrior could not imagine.

  “Levers, Reynor,” Elgo answered his Guard Captain’s question. “Poles and wedges I used, rolling it a foot at a time, setting wedges to keep it from rolling back. When I first espied it, ’twas already standing along the ledge, at that far end . . . see . . . yes, there. Had the rock not been there to begin with, then there would have been no way that I could have done it.

  “And when I actually levered it off to come down upon the Troll, I thought that I would split a gut, for it would not move at first. Yet at last I pried it loose, and down it came. See, there is one of Golga’s own bones still trapped under.”

  Reynor peered at the knob of a huge bone protruding from beneath the fractured rock, perchance a thigh, and a puzzled look came over his features. “Hola! How is that these bones do not crumble under Adon’s Ban?”

  “Troll bones and Dragonhide, lad!” exclaimed Ruric, who had been standing beside Elgo. “Just where d’ye think that oath comes from? I mean, folk don’t say ‘Troll bones and Dragonhide’ just to be clever. ’Tis from the fact that both Troll bones and Dragonhide be such that the Ban holds no sway o’er them. Though his flesh crumbled under the Sun, these bones o’ Golga the Troll ha’e resisted the Ban for three years now, and will continue to do so . . . just as will Sleeth’s hide!”

  Elgo quickly glanced toward his horse, Shade, at the naming of Sleeth, though the Armsmaster saw it not. And Reynor, nodding, asked, “Well if they survived, where are the rest of Golga’s bones?”

  “No doubt some be still trapped ’neath,” answered Ruric, squatting down and peering under the shattered boulder. “But I deem that those exposed ha’e been gnawed away by rats and such.”

  “How even a rat could bite upon dead Troll is beyond me, Old Wolf,” growled Elgo, remembering the stench.

  “Death’s scavengers make no distinction, my Lord,” responded Ruric, “for all be grist for their mills, be it Man, Troll, Elf, Dwarf—”

  At the mention of Dwarf, Elgo cast a look back at the way they had come, as if seeking to see whether or not Baran was in sight. “Let us begone from here, for I have business with the DelfLord of Kachar.”

  And so, down from the pass they came, eleven Vanadurin, the battle standard of the Harlingar snapping in the breeze.

  Near noontide of the next day, the fifth since setting out from the castle, the survivors of the raid on Blackstone rode out of a thick stand of silver birch, the last trees of an upland forest bordering the foot of a wide vale cupped by towering mountains. Before them stood a Realmstone, marking the boundary between the Châkkaholt of Kachar and the northeasternmost marge of Aven, the Dwarven obelisk pointing skyward, its runes plain for all to see. They had come down from Kaagor Pass, having ridden through the great chain of the Grimwall Mountains, and turned rightward, southwesterly, and had fared across the high wold and through the wooded land thereupon, the trees still clothed in winter dress, though buds burgeoned for spring. And now they had come nigh unto their goal, for the iron gates of Kachar stood at the upper end of the vale.

  “There it be, my Lord,” growled Ruric, pointing. High up, where the floor of the northward running valley met the wall of the westerly mountain, stood a black opening. Down from this gape, a tradeway wended, disappearing from sight now and again, hidden by shallow folds in the land, only to reappear and continue southerly, until at last it was gone from the vale and into the upland forest.

  “I see it, Armsmaster,” returned Elgo, his one eye alight with fire. Spurring Shade, forward rode the Prince, followed by his entourage, the column riding out from the woods and canting down the slope and onto the open land.

  Down across the vale they fared and up again, coming to the roadway leading unto the gates, turning their horses along this route.

  Brak stood at the worktable, a leathern apron over his clothes. Small tools were scattered before him, and in his hands he held a work of silver, inspecting it closely. His concentration was broken by a Châk herald rushing into the chamber, the youth’s face flush with the news he bore. Setting aside the silverwork, Brak turned and motioned the herald forward.

  “DelfLord”—the messenger stepped before Brak—“Men ride horses within the vale, eleven be their number, bearing the flag of Jord, it seems.”

  “Hah!” barked the black-haired Châkka leader, pulling the work apron from him. “They come to arrange for the return of our Drake-stolen property. Assemble the Chief Captains in the Hall of State. Thork, too. We shall greet these visitors properly.”

  As the herald rushed through the doorway, Brak called out: “Baran and the others ride with the Men, do they not?”

  The messenger stopped and turned. “Nay, DelfLord, they do not. The Men come alone.” Pausing to see if there were aught else Brak would say, then seeing that there was not, the herald rushed on.

  Puzzled at this unexpected news, Brak stepped to the wall where hung his black-iron mail and tunic and raiment of state, a thoughtful look upon his face.

  Hooves ringing upon polished granite, up and onto the great open foregate courtyard rode the Vanadurin, fetching up against a low set of wide, broad steps leading up to another broad stretch of polished granite passing through the mighty iron gates, the portals themselves opened wide, pressing against the stone flank of the mountain towering above. Down stepped Dwarves, some taking the reins of the steeds, others standing by to greet the Harlingar. Dismounting, the Vanadurin slung shields across their backs, and girted themselves with sabers and long-knives, taking on the aspect of armed and armored warriors.

  “I would speak with Brak,” announced Elgo bruskly, un-lashing a roll of cloth from behind his saddle. “Tell him that Elgo, Prince of Jord, Slayer of Sleeth and Liberator of Blackstone would have words with him.”

  As they turned to enter the Dwarvenholt, “Steady, my proud Prince,” said Ruric in a low voice, casting a meaningful glance Elgo’s way. But if the one-eyed Prince heard him, he gave no indication of it.

  Up the steps the Vanadurin were led and through the iron gate, past axe-wielding and crossbow-bearing Dwarven sentries. Out of the noontide brightness and into the shadowed holt marched the Harlingar with their escort, into the blue-green phosphorescent light of Dwarven lanterns bracketed along the carven stone corridors. Down into this maze they stepped, striding toward the Hall of State, where awaited Fate.

  They were escorted into a great chamber. Dwarven warriors were assembled within, two hundred or so, each arrayed in black-iron chain mail, each bearing some type of weapon: back-slung, double-bitted, rune-marked axes; warhammers and shields; light crossbows and quivers of quarrels. Helms were on their heads, but unlike the simple leather and steel caps of the Harlingar, with their horsehair gauds or birds’ wings, the Dwarven helms bore fanciful metal figures of legendary beasts, or metal wings aflare.

  An open corridor through the Dwarven ranks stretched before the Vanadurin, leading across white marble flooring and to the throne dais, where sat Brak upon a massive and ornate chair of state, carven with gilded symbols. Leaning against the left arm of the throne, a great black axe stood, its iron beak grounded against the dais. To Brak’s right stood Thork, his youngest son, the warrior’s arms folded across his chest.

  Ruric glanced at Elgo, and the Prince’s scars flared scarlet at this display of might. But ere the Armsmaster could say a calming word, Elgo strode into the jaws of Destiny, his hard pace ringing upon the marble, his hands unwrapping the bundle he bore even as he walked. Behind him advanced ten Vanadurin.

  At last the cloth came free, and Elgo hurled it aside; and now he held in his hands
a great swath of iridescent material: Dragonhide! Marching up to the dais, he stopped; and he held the glittering material above his head and turned about in a slow circle so that all might see. And there came a gasp from the assembled Dwarves, for though none there had ever seen the hide of a Drake, they knew instantly what it was they beheld. Yet they were puzzled, for to all intents and purposes it appeared to be a great bag that this Prince held, hanging down from his high-held hands unto his shoulders; it even had a drawstring.

  Facing Brak once more, Elgo lowered the Dragonhide and untied the drawstring and pulled open the top, and turned the bag upside down. Out dropped a single small gold piece, to strike the stone floor ching! and roll to the base of the throne dais, hitting against the foot of the rise tink! to fall face down and lie gleaming in the phosphorescent blue-green glow of Dwarven lanterns.

  His scars flaring red with rage, Elgo held the Dragonhide in one hand above his head and spoke to Brak in a loud voice so that all in the hall could hear his words: “ A purse such as this you must make ere you can fill your treasuries with Dracongield; yet beware, for only the brave may pluck this cloth from its loom.” And he hurled the Dragonhide purse down at Brak’s feet and spun about, striding for the exit.

  Behind him, Brak roared in fury, snatching up his axe and leaping to his feet, hurling himself toward this arrant treasure stealer. Elgo whirled about, and suddenly his saber was in his right fist, and his shield upon his left arm.

  Blang! Axe met shield. Shing! Saber skittered along black-iron chain mail.

  Dwarves surged forward, some cocking crossbows.

  So too did the Vanadurin take up weapons, falling into a battle square, though they were outnumbered twenty to one.

  “Hold!” roared Brak, stepping away, his features black with wrath, but never taking his eyes from the Man before him. “Foul Elgo, Thief Elgo is mine!”