Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And as Elyn sipped her tea, a fire smoldered deep within her green eyes.

  The dawn light seeping into the pass found Elyn breaking camp. From the east a chill drift of air slid down from the mountain peaks, and the Warrior Maiden donned her fleece vest as proof against the raw flow. As she affixed her bedroll to the saddle cantle, Wind snorted and shied aside. “Steady, girl,” murmured Elyn, casting about but seeing nought that could have caused such skittish behavior in the mare.

  Mounting up, easterly she rode into the cold breeze, and a dull overcast palled the skies. Again Wind skitted, dancing aside, snorting, tossing her head. “What is it, girl?” No sooner had Elyn uttered the words than in the distance she saw a dark shape winging westerly across the leaden sky: Black Kalgalath!

  Her heart hammering, Elyn reined the mare into the lee of a large boulder, seeking concealment. As she did so, at hand in the wall of the pass she spied a dark opening and urged Wind forward. But the horse refused to enter. Swiftly dismounting, the Princess haled on the reins and pulled the reluctant mare into the entrance, stepping into the deep shadows of the cave.

  Inside, a foetid stench drifted unto her nostrils, yet it was faint, as if from years past. No wonder Wind did not want to enter. This smells rank, as if it were a—shock registered upon Elyn’s mind—a Troll hole. Golga’s hole! Quickly stepping to the grey, the Warrior Maiden drew her saber, her eyes seeking to penetrate the ebon blackness deep within the cave, the hair prickling upon her arms and the nape of her neck. Wait, you silly goose. Golga was slain by Elgo but three years past. And surely no Troll has since taken up residence. Yet even after these years, there still is a sickening stench. . . . How could Elgo have ever searched this hole in the first place? It must have been unbearable then. Her brother’s face rose up in her consciousness, yet she refused to let sorrow interfere with her alertness as she kept her eyes locked upon the darkness at the back of the cave. Hammer and anvil: a Dragon without, and who knows what within, mayhap nought.

  An hour or so she waited, all the time watchful, yet nothing came upon her and Wind from the interior of the cave. And she allowed enough time to elapse for Kalgalath to fly league upon league onward, for although she did not know what goal the Drake pursued, she did know that now was not the time to confront the monster. And so she waited as time seeped away, watching the blackness at the back of the Troll hole. And when she deemed that she had waited long enough, out into Kaagor Pass she led Wind, the horse eager to be free of the stench, and they came forth into a thin drizzle raining coldly from the lowering skies.

  Of Black Kalgalath, there was no sign.

  It rained all that day as Elyn first rode westerly and verified that the gates of Kachar were indeed buried—beyond redemption, it seemed, for it appeared as if a massive slide had tumbled down from above, and the gates were pressed beneath unnumbered tons of rock.

  As she rode up to the heap, she began to see the remains of the slain—felled Harlingar, burnt, charred, rent by Drake talon. Yet lo! Some of the slaughtered were Dwarves. Ardu had said nought of Dwarves falling to the Dragon. Elyn sat a moment in speculation, seeking to resolve the mystery before her. Yet nought came to mind, and she found that her eyes sought to look everywhere but at the horrid evidence before her.

  Realizing that she could accomplish nothing here, the Warrior Maiden turned easterly and rode back through the charred forest, it too destroyed by Dragonfire, and nightfall found her some seven leagues from the valley of Kachar, on the way toward the distant Land of Xian.

  As rain fell from the black sky above, she made a fireless camp in the lee of a sandstone butte. Huddling within her oiled-leather rain-cloak, her back to the gritty rock, at last the emotions of the day caught up to Elyn; and she quietly wept for the Dragon-slain, and for her lost brother, too, as well as for the unknown fate of her sire.

  The next morning dawned to clear skies and Elyn rode into the sunrise. And as she fared to the east, once again she was startled to see the ebon shape of a Drake winging west; once more she took shelter, this time within a nearby thicket of trees, as the Dragon hammered past her, a mile or so to the north.

  In less than an hour, she saw Black Kalgalath once more, this time his leathery pinions driving him dawnward, back along the path whence he came.

  Easterly she rode throughout the long summer days across the northern fringes of Aven, her solitude broken only by an occasional animal scurrying athwart her path, or by birds on the wing. To the left through the high clear air could be seen the jagged white crests of the distant Grimwall. Of Black Kalgalath, she saw him four more mornings, each time more distant, winging west with the dawn, returning shortly thereafter. What he did on these flights, she knew not. But on the fifth morning and those following, she saw him not again.

  East she rode through the land, fording an occasional stream, at times swimming across a river, passing among still forests, riding ’cross open grasslands with but an occasional thicket to break the horizon. At rare times she would come upon a farmstead or a hunter’s shack, but in all she met few people; even when she did, they would eye this strange Warrior Maiden, helmed, gleaming weaponry at hand, grey leathers showing beneath her cloak, as if she were a hearthtale come to life. When possible, she would replenish her supplies from these steaders, from these hunters, paying with good copper for the grain and waybread, for the smoke-cured meat and flour, for the jerky and dried fish.

  At times, while Wind cropped grass, Elyn had to hunt to have aught to eat, walking afield with sling or bow, stalking the woods likewise, now and again grubbing for roots or foraging for berries. And although she did not truly go hungry, at times she dreamt of sumptuous banquets at her sire’s table.

  And summer crept forward as days and weeks and the leagues behind her fled into the past.

  At each crofter’s place or hunter’s cote she would ask the way to Xian or to Black Mountain, receiving nought but a vague wave of a hand to the east, though occasionally one would tell her that it was a place to avoid at all cost, for who knows the ways of those who dwell within.

  And at the very last place, not only did Elyn receive a warning about the Land of Xian, she was also warned of the Khalian Mire: “They be bad things in there, Miss,” cautioned the trapper. “Best you go around.”

  “How far through; how far around?” asked Elyn.

  “Well now,” answered the trapper, “if ye be wise to its tricks, then it be a full day through, sunrise to sunset. Around, it be three, four days. Yet, Miss, around be the way to go, for vileness is said to dwell within.

  “Ye ought to be like t’other what I seen yester: on a pony, he was; I saw him at a distance. I think he went around. If he didn’t, then he’s a damned fool.”

  Thanking the trapper for the advice and paying him for the grain and meat and bread, Elyn set out to the east once more.

  That night she stopped within sight of the mire, a great bogland standing across her way.

  As the Sun rose the next morning, Elyn broke camp. She had decided last night that she would ride through the swamp this day rather than take the extra time going about. And so, into the marsh she headed.

  Large hoary old trees, black cypress and dark swamp willow, twisted up out of the muck, looming, barring the morning light, their warped roots gnarling down out of sight into the slime-laden mud. A greyish moss dangled down from lichen-wattled limbs, like ropes and nets set to entangle and entrap the unwary. A faint mist rose up from the bog, reaching, clinging, clutching at those who would seek to pass through. Snakes slithered from drowned logs into green-scummed water, and swarms of gnats and flies and mosquitoes filled the air like a grey haze.

  And into these environs rode Elyn, she and her grey mare swathed with the stench of gyllsweed to repel the bloodsucking insects.

  As the day wore on, the heat became oppressive. Clouds of swarming pests flew all about, and at times Elyn would have to smear more of the odiferous juice upon herself and Wind to keep the insects at bay.

&
nbsp; The bog itself was a veritable maze of water and mire and land. Often Elyn had to backtrack to get around some obstacle, and at times she and Wind had no choice but to wade the scum-laden pools; and they would emerge with leeches clinging to the mare’s legs, razor mouths clamped tight, bodies bloating with blood. Elyn scraped them away with her dagger, treating the oozing wounds left behind, while insects, driven mad by the smell of blood, darted and swarmed and clotted upon the horse’s shanks.

  Slowly the Sun crept up and over, glaring down upon the swamp, the mire steaming in response; and it seemed as if the air itself became too thick, too wet to draw a clean breath. The marsh heaved with gases belching from slimy waters, bubbles plopping, foul stenches reeking the air. And Elyn had no idea how far she had come, nor how far there was left to go. Yet she pressed onward, for now she had no choice but to push on through.

  Seeping downward, the Sun sank into the west, and lengthening shadows streamed from the hunched hummocks, from the twisted trees, from the sharp-edged reeds and saw grass, filling the bog with gloom. And above the incessant hum of the swarm of flying pests, other noises began to fill the air: a chirruping and breeking and peeping of swamp dwellers, along with ploppings, splashings, wallowings, slitherings.

  The Sun began to set. Long shadows slanted across the darkening bogland. Elyn and Wind came among a stand of tall, thickset marsh reeds, the rushes blocking Elyn’s view: she could not see more than a few feet ahead. She was yet some unknown distance from the far edge of the Khalian Mire, and she did not want the night to find her still within the clutches of the swamp, in the grasp of this place of dire repute, stranded here within these malevolent environs. Wind skitted and shied, and snorted nervously, as if she sensed some evil.

  And then from beyond the reeds, past the foul moss adrip and lifeless branches of a twisted dead cypress standing in the oozing muck, a panic-stricken scream of a terrified steed rang out, filling a sudden silence.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Quest of Black Mountain: Thork

  Early and Mid Summer, 3E1602

  [This Year]

  Boom! shut the gate.

  Clang! fell the bar.

  The metallic clash of iron on iron belled above the frightened cries of Men and Dwarves and the squeals of horses.

  “By damn,” roared Aranor, his voice lost among the shouts of others, “open up those gates. I have Men trapped out there—”

  DOOM! The great iron portal juddered from some massive strike, as if Black Kalgalath himself had crashed into them. And rock dust drifted down from the stone above.

  And in the sudden silence that followed within, the wrathful roaring of an enraged Dragon and the terrified shrieks of dying Harlingar could be heard from without, the terrible sounds of death and slaughter muted by the iron.

  “Open the gates!” cried Reynor. “They die!”

  The Dwarves stood fast.

  “By Hèl, I said open the gates!” Reynor drew his saber and started forward, but Ruric grabbed his wrist and held him back.

  “’Tis too late, lad,” gritted the Armsmaster, tears in his eyes. “Too late.”

  In horrified silence they stood rooted, while outside, the slaughter went on and on. And Men and Dwarves alike clapped hands over ears, trying to shut out the hideous sounds.

  And then the dying stopped.

  But a moment later a massive thundering whelmed endlessly upon the gate, and it juddered and jolted and sounded with a great clangorous hammering. Men and Dwarves reeled back and horses reared, and the very stone they stood upon trembled and rattled. And it sounded as if the mountain itself were being torn asunder.

  Suddenly, the whelming stopped, and except for the clatter of skitting hooves of frightened steeds upon the stone of the chamber floor, and the hoarse breathing of Châkka and Vanadurin within, once again silence reigned.

  Despite the massive battering, the gates of Kachar still stood.

  When he deemed that Black Kalgalath was finished, Baran found his voice. “Open the inner portals,” he commanded, calling out his words above the susurration and clack. “Captain Bolk, escort these Riders unto their place of staying.”

  And with a distant clatter of gears, the great gates at the interior end of the vast assembly hall began to swing wide, revealing a broad shadow-wrapped corridor stretching beyond. When the inner gates stood full open, down into the strongholt of their enemy went the Harlingar, down into a maze of stone-hewn tunnels, down into the bowels of the mountain, down into Kachar, led there by fierce Châkka warriors, the implacable foe. And as the remnants of the Vanadurin Host wended deeper and deeper into the burden of the stone, woeful legends of the underworld skittered through their minds, and chary eyes searched the gloom for unknown, lurking threats, and they wondered if any of them would ever again see the grassy plains of Jord.

  “Kruk! but I mislike these Riders being within,” railed Thork, pacing the length of the chamber and back again. “It is as if we have taken a viper unto our bosoms.”

  The gathered Chief Captains rumbled their agreement.

  “Aye,” growled red-haired Bolk, addressing Baran. “Prince Thork has the right of it, DelfLord. Already these snivellers seek to heap guilt upon us all for the deeds of the Dragon. The next one of them who says we slammed the gate in fear, I will see that he never speaks such lies again.” The Châk warrior thumbed the edge of his axe, resentment smoldering deep within his dark eyes.

  Baran sat at his place at the great round table, staring at its polished stone surface. When Bolk fell silent, the DelfLord looked up. “I like it no more than any that these looting Riders reside within, yet Honor demands it, thieves or no. A Dragon raids, and we have all seen and heard what a Drake’s wrath will do. Just why Black Kalgalath has taken it upon himself to bring death and destruction to our very door, I cannot say, yet he has done so.”

  Baran turned to Dokan, Minemaster. “We must see what it is that the Dragon has done to our gates. They will not open, and I suspect that he has blocked them from without by pulling down stone from the Mountain above. On the morrow, Minemaster, I would have you take a work force out through the secret portal at vale’s head and begin the task of removing the stone, if indeed that is the case.”

  “Aye, Lord,” replied Dokan, an elder Châk, his white beard and hair shining blue-green in the phosphorescent glow of the flameless Dwarven lanterns. “I will take a hundred or so: hammerers, drillers, haulers. If more are needed, I will see that they are fetched.”

  Baran turned to Bolk. “Captain Bolk, that someone must stand guard over the Men cannot be denied. It has fallen to your Company to do so. You and your warriors are like to hear many lies within their quarters, many insults, Chief Captain, yet I ask you to forbear, to hold your temper. We know the truth of it: It was I who ordered the gates closed. It would not do to have a Drake within Kachar. If I had not done so, then there is a chance that Kachar would have fallen to a Drake just as Blackstone did sixteen hundred years apast. It was fear of this as well as dread of the Dragon that caused me to shut the entrance to Kachar, and so the Riders have something in their favor when they say that I closed the gates out of fear.”

  “But that is not cowardice as the Riders claim,” protested Bolk. “Only a fool would stand before a charging Drake.”

  “As they say Prince Elgo did,” muttered Thork.

  “Elgo! Pah!” The name came off Bolk’s tongue like an oathword, a sentiment echoed by the other Chief Captains, words of frustration and rage rumbling about the chamber: Loose-tongued Riders. Just one word from any . . .

  At dawn of the next day, Dokan led a company of delvers out through the secret portal at vale’s head. Across the valley along the foot of the butte toward the foregate courtyard they marched, but even ere drawing nigh they could see that an entire army of delvers would be needed to remove the unnumbered tons of stone blocking the gate. Massive was the rock heap, great blocks torn from the shattered Mountain above, ramping up against the towering flank, burying the p
ortal. Yet onward they marched, for Dokan would see for himself just what need be done ere sending word back into Kachar for more aid, more tools, more supplies.

  Among Dragon-slain Harlingar they tramped, the Men burnt and rent and crushed. And the scavengers had been at them: empty eye sockets stared from gape-hole faces at the marching Châkka, partially stripped bones gleamed whitely in the dawnlight, and slack-jawed gaping grins japed obscenely from silent mouths ajar.

  Past this slaughter marched the Dwarves, and though the sight sickened many, still this was the foe. Even so, there was no honor in the manner of their death; it was not as if these Men had met an enemy in honest battle; instead, they had been cruelly slain by a monster, and in this, the Châkka felt that the warrior codex had not been served. Enemy or not, a warrior deserves to fight the good fight, and if slain, then so be it. Or so say the Châkka.

  Dokan led the delvers to the base of the great heap. It was even more massive than he had expected. Slowly the Châkka walked about the foot of the ramp, each assessing the enormous labor that it would take to clear away the blockage. At last the Minemaster called a runner unto him, and in short, terse sentences said what message he would have borne back to DelfLord Baran. And when the runner sped away, Dokan began giving orders to the remaining crew.

  Sandy-haired Dorni, apprentice delver, sped toward the secret Châkka door, the Minemaster’s message committed to memory. Past the slain Harlingar he ran, and across the open slope, running alongside the stone bluff to his left. At last the young Dwarf arrived at the great boulder and slipped into the shallow crevice behind. Quickly his hands found the hidden lever. And just as the stone slab swung inward—