Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Rummaging about in his knapsack, Thork held up a brown packet. “Lady, if you can light a fire in this wet wood, we can both have tea.”

  “Hah!” Elyn barked, snatching the packet from Thork. “Set me an impossible task, will you? Hola, but wait, mayhap there be a way after all.”

  Emitting a low, throaty laughter, the Princess searched her own pack and extracted a tiny lantern. Unfastening a metal clasp, she pulled the diminutive brass and glass square-pane chimney from the base. In a trice she had the wick burning, and in anticipation Thork had a small pot of water ready to suspend above the flame.

  After some time, they hunkered down within the edge of the woods and sipped warm, bracing tea, each revelling in the smell and taste and heat of the drink. And as they savored their mutual victory over nature, before them in the east for as far as they could see lay the open wold, and somewhere in the far distance beyond the horizon lay their hidden goal. They sat in silence for a while, yet at last Elyn said, “Thork, I must tell you something. Until these past two days, I never considered that others had lost loved ones in the strife between our Folk. Oh, I knew it, but I didn’t feel it. My only thought was that I had lost those dear to me. I did not stop to think that when Elgo was slain, so too was Brak. And just as my brother was loved, Brak must have been loved as well. And I did not admit that in the War, casualties were suffered by both sides. But, I am not ready to dwell upon the rights and wrongs of the deaths suffered between us . . . not yet. But this I do propose: that during this day, as we ride eastward, I will try to see the justice of your claim against the trove, and you will try to see that of mine.”

  During Elyn’s words, at mention of Brak’s death, Thork had cast his hood over his head, a Châkka gesture of mourning. And when she spoke of considering the Jordian claim against the trove, Thork shifted uncomfortably, as if being asked to do something that went against his grain. He turned his head away, and stared off into the morning distance, his sight flying far across the open wold, as if seeking some sort of answer along the rim of the world.

  “Thork?” Elyn’s voice was soft.

  The Dwarf turned and looked deep into the emerald pools of her eyes, his own dark glance shadowed and unseen deep within the cowl of his cloak. And down within the viridian depths he seemed to find an answer, his discomfort vanishing in the endless clear green of her gaze.

  “Aye,” he agreed, “I will think upon it.”

  Over the next several weeks they slowly wended eastward, the land about them changing from an open wold unto rolling hills, thickets and grassland slowly becoming forests and glens. Two small hamlets did they encounter, and an occasional woodsman’s cote or crofter’s farm. And when they came upon these places, Elyn found as long as she wore the silveron nugget, no one perceived her or Thork. She would slip off the amulet long enough to gain permission to sleep in a loft, or to replenish their supplies, or to take a room within an inn of comfort and dwell a while, always wearing the stone in private. And all who saw them upon the way deemed it strange that a Dwarf and a female Human were companions of the road, though few voiced these thoughts. Stranger still was the fact that the Woman girded herself about with weaponry, and that the Dwarf bore a covered shield with no device. Armed and armored like warriors were these two. Yet those they encountered questioned not, for the copper coins they received from this pair purchased privacy from prying as well as food and shelter and grain and other such. And always the twain sought information as to the direction of the Black Mountain, said to be the Wizards’ holt. And ever was the answer a vague wave eastward: “. . . somewhere in the mountains to the Sun, I hear.”

  And all who saw them noted that the two seemed engrossed in deep discussions, now and again appearing to disagree in anger, though quietly. In the first village that they came to, a woodcutter sat near their table, and when asked by the innkeeper, the cutter told that he had overheard some of their discussion, though it didn’t seem to make much sense. “Speakin’ o’ Dwarf enemies, he wos. Said that he whot makes a enemy o’ a Dwarf has a enemy e’erlastin’. Said that Dwarves’ll seek revenge fore’er, ’tis their nature. And that sommun whot wos named Sleeth wos still their foe, he wos, and would ha’e been till the stars theirselves died ded.”

  “Ar, now there be a bit o’ news,” responded the innkeeper, his eyes going round with wonder. “Sleeth be a Dragon, I hear. Well now, did he say anathin’ elsewise, or did she say anathin’ back?”

  “Coo, after a bit she said somethin’ about a land whot lay fallow for a thousan’ five hunnert years wos abandoned, by her reckonin’. E’en so, she could see that if Dwarves’d seek vengeance fore’er, then perhaps they wosna finished with this here Sleeth.

  “Then he says that if Men thought that a thousan’ five hunnert years wos a long time, wellanow he could see where they got their misnotions about diligence. That fifteen hunnert years wos but four, mayhap five, Châk lifetimes, but those same fifteen hunnert years wos twenty spans o’ Man; it wos fifteen generations o’ Dwarves, but sixty or seventy o’ Man. Hoo now, doesna that make your head spin right ’round?

  “Then she says somethin’ softlike whot I didna hear, and that’s when he grabbed her wrist fiercelike and hissed, ‘Black Kalgalath! Black Kalgalath’s got it?’

  “Har, she just jerked her arm outta his grip and nodded, lookin’ about ter see if any had seen. I acted like I wos deep in my stew, but that wos when they got up and went outside, and I didna hear no more.”

  “Sleeth and Black Kalgalath, too.” The innkeeper let out a low whistle. “Now doesna that beat all. Two Dragons. Two! Hoy, whot would a Dwarf and a warrior Woman want with even one Dragon, much less two?”

  “Somethin’ strange, though,” whispered the cutter, looking about guardedly. “I got up ter follow, ter see whot they wos up to anow, but they wosna out there! It wos like they disappeart inter thin air, it wos!”

  With these words, both the cutter and innkeeper scribed warding signs in the air.

  Thus were the whispered tales that followed Elyn and Thork. And wherever they encountered other living souls, they left behind looks of puzzlement over this oddly mismatched pair of warriors that sought the Mountain of the Mages, and spoke of Dragons and vengeance and Death, and seemed to come and go unobserved.

  No foe attacked them on this long journey, for the token borne by Elyn seemed to ward them as the Wolfmage had said it would.

  And the farther east they went, the stranger became the tongues of the natives, the more peculiar the accents and the harder time they had in making themselves understood and in understanding words spoken to them, even though the locals were uttering a brand of the Common Tongue. Too, the skin color of the inhabitants slowly shifted, shading to a dark tan and then tending toward a yellowish hue. Finally the two came to a region where they could not speak the language at all, and had to communicate by sign. Even so, with pen and ink and parchment, Thork sketched a picture of a dark mountain, blackening it until it was ebon. And by pointing to the figure and then gesturing, palms upward in puzzlement, they still received vague hand motions to the east.

  Mid-fall passed, and late fall stepped into the world, and still eastward fared the two, living on the game brought down by Elyn’s sling, or her bow, or on Thork’s skill with his crossbow, supplemented with supplies purchased from woodsmen, crofters, the rare innkeeper, and the even rarer village store. What concerned them most was grain for the steeds, yet they managed to supplement the grass of the earth with oats, millet, or barley obtained from the scattered inhabitants living in the land. And as they had fared eastward, the nights had become frigid, and the pair wrapped themselves about in the winter dress they had borne all along. Wind and Digger, too, prepared for the coming cold, for their hair had gradually transformed into thick coats of winter shag.

  Slowly the wold had given way to forested hills, and now these too began to alter, rising ever upward and becoming barren of most trees. At last one day as they topped a desolate hill, low in the distance
before them they could see a jagged range of white-tipped dark mountains clawing up into the sky, the reach before them ramping upward toward the remote somber peaks.

  All that day they travelled, and the next as well, the mountains seeming as distant as ever. Yet Thork assured Elyn that they were indeed drawing closer.

  And on the second day, while Elyn waited below, sheltered from a raw north wind ablowing, Thork climbed atop a large boulder on the crest of one of the hills and looked for the four close-set peaks spoken of by the Wolfmage—like fingers on a hand, the Magus had said. And suddenly he saw them, and southward of the southernmost finger there was the thumb as well. Calling down to Elyn, he pointed leftward, guiding their route northeasterly, aiming for the col between thumb and first finger.

  Of a sudden, it seemed, on the third day they found themselves passing upward among grey stone looming left and right, perpendicular slabs soaring up, immense somber massifs, towering dark giants, overlooking their progress, furiously brawling creeks dashing down slopes and hurling outward into space, free at last from the fettering rock, the crystalline plume plunging hundreds of feet only to smash into dusky stone below and hurtle frantically onward, seeking to escape once more.

  Up through this hard land of dark unyielding rock and plummeting flumes plodded horse and pony, led by Elyn and Thork afoot, the air thin about them. And as they came through the col, in the distance before them they could see peak upon peak without number marching beyond an unseen horizon.

  Yet, to the north and east stood one crest above the others, ebon as the night.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Taking of the Trove

  Early Summer, 3E1602,

  [This Year]

  A full tenday had passed since the army of Jord had ridden away from the keep, and Elyn and Mala had filled each of those days with frantic activity, arranging for supplies to be transported to the Host, planning for the defense of Jord should another foe fall upon them, conducting the business of State. At times Elyn was called upon to sit in judgement over some dispute, and she detested this role of governance. Yet amazingly, Mala proved to be an invaluable counsellor in these instances, for at last, it seemed, something of worth was asked of her. Over the past month Elyn had observed Mala’s sour disposition giving way to one that in manner was softer, for although her temperament yet remained somewhat austere, a sense of fair play now was evident. Not to say that Mala was not firm, but rather to say that now she was more thoughtful. And more than once when Elyn had consulted her, Mala had balanced the alternatives against one another, asking if there was aught else that bore upon the problem ere rendering her assessment; and when she had garnered all the information available, step by step Mala would logically and forthrightly come to a conclusion, an appraisal based upon fact rather than upon preconceived notions, an evaluation that Elyn found herself in agreement with at nearly every turn. Aye, without warning, Mala had been thrust into a role of great responsibility, and she grandly rose to meet the challenge, breaking through the shell of her past narrowness as she did so.

  And now it was the beginning of the eleventh day since the Host had been gone from the keep, and on this morning Elyn felt a deep sense of foreboding, for she gauged that the Harlingar had stood before the gates of Kachar for at least four days, given the pace of a Vanadurin long-ride; surely the struggle had already begun: even now, Harlingar could be failing in battle, and this Warrior Maiden was not there to lend the strength of her arms.

  Shaking her head to clear it of these bodeful thoughts, Elyn looked up from the ledger before her. “Wheat,” she announced to the delegation that had been standing in silence before her, a dozen or so Men, “oats, grain: that will feed both Harlingar and horse.”

  “Aye, Princess, that it would, could we break the soil.” The speaker was an elderly Man dressed in the rough breeks and heavy jerkin and thick boots of a crofter. “But the plain truth is, most o’ the Men ha’e gone off to this Dwarf War, and there be no’ enough left to do the tillin’.”

  Elyn turned to Mala sitting at the end of the table.

  “Are there enough so that the most hale and fit could do all the plowing, and the less fit do the harrowing, and the remaining do the sowing?” Mala’s eye swept across the delegates, noting that some saw what she was driving at. “Can you not join forces in this time of trial, each doing that for which he is best suited, and by joining together doing it all?”

  “Aye, Lady, that we might be able to do,” answered the spokesman. “By workin’ all the land in common, ’stead o’ that which be ours alone, it might be done.”

  “Then I suggest that you go forth and do so,” responded Mala.

  The delegates turned to the Princess, and smiling, she waved them away. And awkwardly saluting this Princess, this leather-clad, Warrior-Maiden Steward of Jord, they withdrew.

  When they were gone: “Ah, Mala, you are a jewel!” exclaimed Elyn.

  “Nonsense,” growled Mala, though it was plain to see that she was pleased with herself, and pleased as well that the Princess considered her worthy. “They would have come to the same decision among themselves. Crofters have always aided one another . . . just never on such a grand scale.”

  “Even so, my Aunt, you lend the Court a noble air of wisdom,” Elyn replied, “much needed in these dark times.”

  Shuffling the papers before her, Mala cast her eyes down, and the Princess knew that the prim Mala was embarrassed.

  “Well, now,” said her aunt at last, “what shall we do about more waggons?”

  Sighing, Elyn looked at the tally sheets. “As supplies are used by the Host, wains will come empty. These will return here to be refilled with other cargo, and then it’s back to Kaagor Pass. The trick is to ascertain just how many will be in this continual round, and to determine how many more are needed to supplement those. . . .”

  It was nearly two hours later when the frantic bugle call sounded from the walls: A-raw, a-rahn! A-raw, a-rahn! A-raw, a-rahn! [A foe, alert!] Dropping her quill pen, papers scattering, Elyn leapt up from the table, her chair toppling to the floor, falling with a crash behind. Snatching up her saber, she dashed from the room, Mala hurrying to right the seat, and gather up the strewn documents. The horn continued to bell.

  As the Princess dashed across the bailey, the iron-clad gates of the keep wall were slammed to, the great bar blanging into place, the portcullis rattling down. Glancing up at the sentinel atop the barbican, her gaze followed his outstretched arm, and he was pointing east, up into the sky. And there, hurtling down from the heights came a great ebon shape: ’Twas a Dragon.

  Black Kalgalath had arrived.

  And all trembled at his coming.

  Elyn gained the top of the wall as the mighty Drake whelmed down into the court, the air from his wings booming like thunder. Men blanched with fear, and many ran. Horses shrieked in terror, bucketing and lashing out their heels. Windows and doors slammed to. And the Dragon roared—“RRRRAAAWWWW!”—his voice crashing through the air, so loud that it burst eardrums, and blood ran from nostrils. Windows shattered, and tiles crashed down, and the roofs of stalls fell inward.

  Atop the wall, Elyn of Jord clapped her hands o’er her ears and wrenched in pain and fell to her knees clutching her head. And she trembled in fear, for a calamity beyond measure had come upon the keep of the Harlingar, and she knew nought to do to stave it off.

  And from the ebon Drake there came a massive sound, a sound like immense brass slabs dragging one upon the other, booming together, belling, grating; and within this hammering din, clangorous reverberations formed into words, speech: “Where is this Elgo Drake Slayer? I would meet him in combat and take my revenge. Where is this Man who would dare to fell one of the Dragonkith? Come forth, pygmy, and meet your doom!”

  Silence met Black Kalgalath’s challenge.

  “RRRRAAAWWWW!” came his roar again.

  FOOSH! A vast jet of flames hurtled from his throat and thundered into the stables, engulfing the mews in unq
uenchable fire; horses trapped inside shrieked in terror, those in the outside pen hammered through the fence or leapt over the barrier in their fear.

  “Elgo,” came the brazen clang, “come out. Face your slayer.”

  “My brother is dead, foul Drake, beyond your vengeance.” Elyn’s voice rang out across the courtyard, the words seeming small and shrill.

  Black Kalgalath’s mighty head swung about, his yellow eyes fixing upon this Human creature standing atop the fortress wall above the iron gate.

  Elyn turned her head aside and thrust a hand out toward the Dragon, tracing the sign of Adon, a sign of warding, within the air, for she had heard that Drake’s eyes would capture the soul of one who was unwary.

  Kalgalath’s voice boomed outward: “Who has cheated me of my pleasure? What fool thwarted my revenge?”

  “The Dwarves of Kachar,” came Elyn’s reply. “They slew the Liberator of Blackstone; they slew my twin.”

  Kalgalath’s hideous visage once again faced the castle. “Aranor of Jord,” he roared, “sire of this Dragon murderer now dead, then would I take my vengeance upon you. Are you hiding in fear? Do you quaver within your halls?”

  “Nay, foul Drake”—Elyn’s voice held the timbre of one pushed to the limit—“he stands before the gates of Kachar and seeks a tribute of blood from the murderers of his heir.”

  Black Kalgalath swung his face back to Elyn, and she listened to his words in growing horror. “Hear me then, O Sister of arrogant Elgo: He who would presume to slay one of my kind shall suffer, and if not him, then his sire, or his get, or his kith. For now Sleeth’s ledge will be empty come the time of the Maelstrom, and there will be a struggle to see who moves up, and some may even think to challenge me! For this alone would I seek the death of those who cause it, but even moreso would I slay the one who has slain one of mine.