Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “By your words do I know where to seek my vengeance for this runt Elgo’s wrongdoing: Kachar is where I shall go, for there will I find King Aranor, sire to the presumptuous one. There, too, shall I find the foul-beards who robbed me of my pleasure, and they shall know that what is mine is mine, and that includes the revenge I am owed.

  “But first I shall take that which is my due: the stolen bed of Sleeth.”

  Kalgalath cast forth his awareness, and below the castle he sensed the gold. And as Elyn watched in helpless desperation. BOOM! Black Kalgalath whelmed his massive tail into the main tower, shattering it at the base, and slowly it toppled outward, crashing like thunder down into the bailey, brick and stone smashing asunder, and inside could be heard the screams of the dying. The Dragon slithered up over the wrack and onto the ruin left behind, moving forward into the remaining part of the castle, his mighty claws rending and tearing, shattering the structure as he went, his power, his strength, beyond measure. And always there came the shrieks of those caught within the bursting halls and collapsing walls, and the sobbing and moaning of those trapped within the rubble. At last he stopped his advance, and down dug the great Drake, ripping aside the stone floor, blocks sent flying, slabs tumbling, stone plates shattering upon impact.

  And then the treasure was exposed unto the daylight, gold glittering in the Sun, jewels sparkling, a hoard revealed. And Kalgalath was well pleased by its volume, though he wished for more. And he cast his awareness forth into the prize, but no small silver horn did he sense. Andrak would be disappointed, though the thought of the Mage being thwarted gave pleasure to the Dragon.

  Reaching down with a great webbed claw, the black Drake grasped a clench of the trove and raised it up before his eyes, gripping it in his left clutch. It glittered in the sunlight, and felt smooth, pleasurable to his clasp. Tilting his clawed foot, he allowed the treasure to cascade from his webbing and fall back into the trove, and gold struck gold, a chinging music. But how to bear the hoard back unto his lair?

  Turning, he came face to face with the Human that had stood atop the wall. Grim visaged, she bore a bow fitted with fletched arrow. Letting fly, the shaft sped at Kalgalath’s eye, but ere it struck, the nictitating membrane flashed downward o’er long slitted pupil, and the bolt crashed into the crystalline layer and fell harmlessly to earth. Kalgalath’s brazen laughter rang forth, and he offhandedly slapped her aside. She was hurled backwards into a ruin of a wall, whelming into loosened bricks that toppled upon impact, cascading, crashing to the floor, Elyn fallen among the rubble. And she moved no more.

  Slithering out from the wreckage, the Drake made his way to the barbican, and metal shrieked as he reft aside the portcullis as if it were no more than an insignificant hindrance. And he slid under the arch and to the iron gates and whelmed the midpoint of the rightmost one, buckling the cladding and splintering the interior wood, shattering the great bar. Hurling aside the broken beam, twice more he smote upon the thick plating, hammering it concave. He eyed his work, and then ripped the incurved metal from its hinges, and stripped away the ruptured wood and the outer cladding from the ruined gate. Retaining the inner plate, Black Kalgalath dragged the thick concave sheet behind as he slid back unto the shattered tower, leaving the great iron dent lying in the forecourt.

  When he slithered once more to the trove, the Human was gone, but it mattered not. Reaching down and scooping up two clawed grips of riches, the Drake awkwardly made his way to the bent metal, placing the wealth within. Sliding back, the Dragon reached down into the treasury and grasped more, returning to the curved plating and depositing the plunder. Trip after trip he made, transferring the trove from the wrecked treasury to the great iron dish, until it was done.

  Again the Dragon cast out his senses, and once more affirmed that there was no small silver horn within his purview. And he laughed at what he knew would be Andrak’s rage.

  The hiding Humans did not escape his attention, for he detected many cowering or trapped within the wreckage or fleeing across the plain. And so he spewed forth fire, blasting the places where he knew these cringing creatures huddled in fear, setting structures aflame, slaying horses, scorching the land.

  Looking about, the Drake saw wreckage and flame and death, and was well pleased with his handiwork. And clenching the treasure-laden iron plate with grasping talons, hind claw as well as fore, bellowing a deafening roar, once again he took to wing, his great black leathery pinions straining up into the air, haling the massive trove into the sky, struggling to gain altitude, moving eastward all the while.

  And to the end, from the safety of the hiding place where she had dragged the Princess, Mala clasped the unconscious Elyn unto her bosom and watched Black Kalgalath, the Destroyer, the Pillager, wreak his havoc and then fly away, hatred in her eye.

  CHAPTER 28

  Master and Apprentice

  Mid and Late Fall, 3E1602

  [This Year]

  In an ebon fortress wreathed about by shadows and twists and edges and veerings and mumblings and whisperings that mazed the unwary mind, a dark Mage loomed above a potent token of power: silveron it was, but not to the eye; yet for those with the talent to see, it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. It was a hammer. It was a warhammer. It was the Kammerling. Lying in clutter upon the table.

  The Mage stood in concentration, preparing to See. Slowly, he turned his outer eyes inward, and his inner eye outward, his eyes rolling upward, backward, cornea, pupil, iris disappearing, turning inward, until nought but black peered outward, for the sclera of this Mage’s eyes were ebon as jet. And he spoke a word of power, invoking Vision . And now he could see that which had been concealed from the ordinary eye, for the inner eye perceives the hidden, the unseen, the invisible.

  The Mage reached forward with his dark hands, palms outward, and lightly touched the fringes of the Kammerling’s intangible aura. “They live,” he hissed.

  Angered, the Man, the Elf, leaned back in the tall high-backed seat and closed his ebon eyes and forced his fists to unclench, and slid his hands along the length of the twisted wood of the arms of the chair, arms that ended in claws, upturned and clutching. Placing his grip in that of the throne, he mumbled a word or two.

  Across the dark jagged crests atop ivory mountains he flew, images reversed: Light was dark; red was green; violet, yellow; blue, orange . . . all was turned opposite. O’er red and violet plains and scarlet hills, orange lakes and vermilion forests, grey and dun rivers and variegated rocks he sped, seeking quarry. And though the Sun stood on high, still Andrak sped onward, for sunlight had no hold o’er his etheric being. At last he came unto a rudden wood about which pulsed a dark luminescence that he could not penetrate. Standing just within the perimeter was a great ebon Wolf . . . yet no Wolf was this; instead it was a Draega, a Silver Wolf. And the Wolf turned its auric eyes upward and stared directly at the dark visitant, seeing the true shape, the true colors of the ethereal Mage. And the Draega showed no fear, for fear was not to be found within this silver being of Adonar.

  About the warded wood hurtled the Mage, testing, probing, yet he could not pierce the barrier. And he was certain that the two he sought were within.

  Raging in impotence, he retreated, fleeing above the antithetic ’scape, following the tenuous strand backwards, retracing his flight, coming at last unto the ivory fortress atop the white hill, speeding through light-filled halls and up into the luminous chamber where his bright self sat within the pale emerald chair.

  Drawing a shuddering breath, Andrak opened his eyes, glaring into the dismal gloom about him, and cold oaths fell into the darkness: “Cursed be Dalavar, and cursed be his Silver Wolves!”

  Every day for a month or so, Andrak came unto the dark chamber and sat in the blood-red throne before the Rage Hammer, inner eye perceiving the Kammerling’s aura. And every day his ethereal self sought out the two who would presume to take this token of power unto themselves. Yet they remained within the Wolfwood, of that he was certain, for t
he slow, steady pulsations of the hammer’s invisible luminance changed not.

  But at last there came a day when he detected a faint increase in the cadence of the unseen nimbus. They move!

  Again his ethereal self rushed above the obverted land, yet his mind was ’wildered, for in no direction could he sense his prey, and nought but randomness guided him. Cursing, he sped unto the warded Wolfwood, but nothing, no one, did he find outside its boundaries, and he could not seek within. Has Death claimed them? Do they abandon their quest?

  Again his dark spirit fled back unto his fortress. And once more Andrak tested the hammer’s pulse. Aye, faster. Still they come. The Mage paced across the room and stopped before a tall window slit, now covered, to block the sunlight, for it was day. Andrak staring but not seeing southward, where lay grey-walled mountains; shouldering up among them was one of black. But his mind did not dwell upon the mountains of Xian; instead he pondered the problem at hand. In some way the two are warded. Meddler Dalavar! Not until I can physically see them, with inner or outer eye, will I be able to break his charm. The day will come when he shall pay for this tampering. I will see to it!

  He abandoned his ethereal search for the two, instead watching the Kammerling, as slowly the tempo of the aura’s beat increased, and Andrak knew that the pair were drawing nearer. Are these the twain spoken of in the prophecy? He did not know. Yet every day his certainty grew, and with it grew his fear.

  Closer and closer the duo came, on that point he was clear, for day by day the beat quickened. And so too did Andrak’s heart.

  Cruelty was a thread that ran throughout each of his days, yet of late it grew as a malignancy wild, for this time it was two who came seeking, and augury foretold that two would succeed where others failed. And so, driven by terror, his tyranny increased, for are not cruelty and tyranny but outward manifestations of inner fear?

  Day upon day, agonizing moment upon agonizing moment, trudging step after trudging step, they came onward, creeping across the land. Exactly where they were, he could not say, though how far away was another matter, for, based upon the hammer’s pulse, he could gauge their range. And inch by inch they drew closer, as sand would trickle grain by grain through the binding stricture of a vast hourglass.

  Back and forth he paced and raged, as would a caged beast, and those that served him gave wide berth to escape his eye, his wrath. And he drew forth his maps and plotted lines and routes between Wolfwood and his holt. And using his arts he set creatures searching along these routes, across these paths, yet none succeeded. Either the twain was not along this way or that, or they had not yet come, or had already passed, or the ward they bore protected them from these creatures, these sendings of Andrak, as well.

  And still the pulsations of the hammer’s unseen aura edged upward as the pair plodded across the land, slowly, steadily, day-by-day drawing nearer. And slowly, steadily, matching their pace, grew Andrak’s rage.

  But there came a night when the chamber rang with laughter, for Andrak had conceived a plan that would rid him of these pests; yet it was a plan that he alone could not achieve, for he had not the power to do so . . . but there was one who did. I will seek out the Master, gain his aid. It will amuse him to do so.

  Far below the ice and deep within the rock, Andrak’s form stood before a great darkness from which malevolence oozed. The Mage’s image bowed down before the throne, and sibilant laughter hissed forth and washed over him. All about, massive ebon stone sucked up the light, casting no reflection, and black velvet tapestries clothed the walls. Twisted servants scuttled among chairs at a great table, setting a banquet in place, a banquet for many, though no one ever came. Hundreds of feet above this deep dwelling, a harsh barren wilderness lay clutched in perpetual ice, and a howling wind thundered upon the frozen waste, hammering upon pinnacle and cravasse alike, its whelming force reshaping the very ’scape. But none of this raw elemental power was felt down within the depths, down within the black fortress, for there, other energies were present.

  “Andrak,” whispered the dark one’s voice.

  “My Lord Modru,” answered the Mage, falling silent again.

  Long moments passed, and still they faced one another. Master and Apprentice, for it was Modru who had seduced Andrak into the ways of darkness, capturing first his mind, and then his spirit. How Modru had done so was simplicity in itself, for ages past, in the night, in disguise, had come the whispering one, posing to the then youthful Mage a seemingly innocent question: “Who lives in the mirror when there is no light?”

  Young Andrak became obsessed with finding the answer. And his studies took him deeper along the forbidden paths. Years he spent constructing virgin silver specula—mirrors cast in total darkness, mirrors untouched by light, surfaces as yet unsullied by reflection—some within the interior of large enclosed spheres in which he lived in blackness, where by feel alone he mirrored the concave surface so that if there had been light there would have been reflection all about him. Yet no light did he show as he slavered silver and glass upon the inside of the great sphere: working rapidly lest the air give out; risking death, for he was driven to know who dwelt within the dark speculum.

  And now and again Modru would come in the night and say that which would draw Andrak even further within the embrace of foul teachings.

  Obsessed, the Mage went at last to dwell with the whisperer, in Gron, in Modru’s stronghold, in the Iron Tower. And there Andrak delved into arcane scrolls and forgotten dusty tomes, tomes warded and locked with runes of power.

  And there came a night when the tower was filled with shrieks of terror, horrified agonized howlings rent from a throat beyond enduring. And Modru smiled unto himself, for he knew that Andrak had succeeded, had seen.

  And when at last he succeeded in answering the question, when Andrak knew beyond all doubt who . . . what . . . did live in the mirror when there was no light, then was his spirit trapped inextricably within the inescapable clutch of Evil, within the iron grip of Modru.

  And so they faced one another, Apprentice and Master, evil and greater evil; and endless moments perished, slain in the corridors of time. At last a long sibilant whisper came from the darkness upon the throne. “And what brings you to my retreat, sweet Andrak?”

  “Master”—Andrak’s voice was obsequious—“the prophecy of the Kammerling is perhaps in danger of being fulfilled.”

  “Which prophecy of the Kammerling?” The room seemed to writhe with Modru’s hissing whisper.

  “That two shall succeed where others have failed. For two are on the way, and they have escaped every trap of mine.” Andrak’s servile tone gave way to anger. “They are aided by Dalavar.”

  “Dalavar the Wolf lover?” The gloating edge left Modru’s tone. “A thorn, that one.”

  The chamber fell silent again, each pondering past conflicts with the Wolfmage. At last Modru’s whisper sissed forth. “Does that fool Black Kalgalath have aught to do with this?”

  “Mayhap, Lord Modru. Mayhap.” Andrak watched as servants continued to scuttle about, Rūcks scrabbling to and fro upon bandy legs. “The Drake still deems that I ward the Kammerling to protect him.”

  “Fool,” sissed Modru. “But you were a bigger fool still to lose your true name to him.”

  Andrak clenched his fists in rage but said nought.

  “And what would you have me do, Andrak, what would you ask of me in this matter?” The darkness upon the throne leaned forward so as not to miss a word.

  “Just this, Master,” came the Mage’s reply. “From the Kammerling itself I can gauge their nearness. When they come into the mountains of Xian, from the west and south, where there is no shelter, where there are no trees to huddle among, where there is nought to build even the crudest lean-to, then would I ask you to send forth a blizzard dire: one that will suck the very heat from them and dash it upon the cold grey stone of Xian; one that will draw the life from them and cast it hurling into the frigid wind; one that will freeze them like iron in
their very tracks; one that will slay them with the icy grip of your distant hand. And when they die I will know it, for the pulsing of the Kammerling shall cease . . . until some other fool sets forth to claim it. But these two fools are the ones who now come to take it, and they are the ones we must stop; for although the prophecy foretells of a twain that shall succeed, that augury knew not of your dread power, my Lord. You have the might to send down a terrible blizzard upon them, one that they cannot, will not survive. Set it upon them, Master, if it be your will; that is what I would ask of you.”

  Modru leaned back, hissing laughter. “I like this plan of yours, Andrak, for it will yield me great pleasure. Long have I waited for such a game, for here within the Barrens the nights and days are overlong, and I would have an entertainment such as this to while away the time.” The darkness upon the throne seemed to swell, press outward. “There will come a day when no longer must I dwell in these environs, a day when a flaming star delivers that for which I wait in solitude. Then shall Mithgar feel the heel of my boot, the crush of my hand, the weight of my fist, the mass of my might, for then it will be that I shall set my own Master free, and then shall this world be mine!” Darkness filled the room.

  But then the blackness seemed to gather once more upon the throne. “Yes. Yes. I do like this plan of yours, my Apprentice. The storm you desire shall be forthcoming; such a sending I have not done in years, and I would stretch my wings once more.

  “Come to me when the time is right, when they are well within the grasp of the mountains, and then shall I destroy these interlopers of yours, then shall I bring Dalavar’s schemes to ruination.”