Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Night found them down at the northernmost foot of Black Mountain, huddled together for warmth, sitting with their backs to mountain stone, wrapped in their cloaks, sharing both their blankets, not daring to light a fire for fear that it would be observed. Yet even had they not felt that they were nigh hostile eyes, still they might not have had the wherewithal to set a campblaze, for wood was scarce among the stark mountains of Xian.

  Hardly a word had been spoken between the twain that day, for the terrain was rugged and all their energy had gone into the struggle down the slopes. Even now they did not speak, for they were spent, the thin air and deep snow and broken land having taken its toll. And so in silence they ate crue and sipped from their waterskins. They could hear the wind sighing across the high mountain stone above, the land seeming empty of all life but their own. And in this lonely place Elyn leaned her head against Thork’s shoulder and fell asleep, a half-eaten biscuit in her hand. Thork gently took it from her grip and stowed it away, and brushed her copper hair from her face, and slid both of them down till they were lying side by side. And hugging her unto him, he too fell asleep; and the Moon sailed silently across the night sky above, saying nought about the Dwarf and the Warrior Maid clasped in each other’s arms below.

  And as they slept, exhausted, from within the very stone itself there sounded a faint patterned hammering, as if a massive fist far below whelmed upon the deep rock, striking out an arcane message, sending tidings to others far and away, and neither Elyn nor Thork gave heed to its proclamation.

  When Thork awoke the next morning it was to Elyn’s voice singing. He was enwrapped in the blankets, still warm from her presence. He lay and listened to the words . . . Would you fight to the death

  For that which you love,

  In a cause surely hopeless . . .

  For that which you love?

  . . . and a sadness fell upon his heart. Even so, he listened to her voice and found beauty therein.

  As Thork sat up, Elyn stopped, as if embarrassed to have anyone hear her. She knelt at the tiny ice-laden rill flowing from the stone of the mountain flank where they had camped, filling the waterskins, readying them for the trek ahead.

  “Hai, layabout”—she grinned—“better hurry. I’ve broken my fast and am ready to carry on, and I’d rather have you at my side than trailing far behind.”

  Thork returned her smile, his sadness vanished. “Lore has it that it is the lot of the male to have a female chattering at him in the early morn.”

  “Early morn?” Elyn smiled and cocked an eye at the Sun rising slowly between two peaks. “Midmorn, more like.”

  Thork stood and stepped behind an outjutting of stone, where he relieved himself. They had both ceased to be embarrassed by such, having travelled a lengthy distance together, days and weeks upon the trail, staying nigh one another for the protection of the Wolfmage’s silveron stone. Yet as he belted his breeks and stepped back toward the rill, he spoke of what was to come.

  “My Lady, we slogged some thirteen miles yester, and if the Mages’ map be right, then the eve of this day will see us come unto Andrak’s holt, if indeed that black dot upon the globe showed the true location of his lair.” Thork squatted by the rivulet and washed his hands, finally cupping them together and scooping up a drink and then another and one more.

  “Your meaning, Thork?”

  “Just this, Princess,” replied the Dwarf as he broke out a biscuit of crue. “That stone you bear: trust you that it will succeed in gaining us unseen entry into Andrak’s keep?”

  Elyn thought long ere answering. “There is this, my friend: We have not been attacked by any creature since we fared forth from the Wolfwood, hence the nugget seems to have warded us from Andrak’s scrying. Too, neither we nor the Vulgs could sense the Wolfmage when he willed it otherwise. And if it thwarts the senses of Andrak, and be-fools eyes such as yours, such as mine, and, aye, such as those of the Vulgs, then surely it will keep us safe from the gazes of whatever warders stand along the bulwarks of Andrak’s holt.”

  “Would that I had your faith, Princess,” responded Thork. “But heed me. To break into whatever stands before us, I would rather keep to tried and true. It is not that I misdoubt the Wolfmage knowing his art; rather it is that I do not trust Andrak when it comes to seeing through the protection of the stone; for the Wolfmage reminded us that Andrak is a Mage as well, and like unto see past the warding of this token.

  “Mayhap Andrak has the eyes of a Dragon, for among my Folk it is said that a Drake’s gaze cannot be fooled by aught.”

  “Aye,” responded Elyn, “they tell that in Jord, too. In spite of such, I was hoping that this token would aid us against Black Kalgalath’s senses, as well as those of Andrak, for my People also say that a Dragon knows when any come within his domain, and I would hope that somehow we could come upon him unawares, mayhap with the warding of the stone. Of course, it is not certain that I will be bearing this device when we approach Kalgalath.”

  As Thork cast a quizzical eye at Elyn, she answered his unspoken question: “Forget not, Thork, the Wolfmage foretold that there would come a time when I would hurl the stone from me. I would rather that it come later than sooner.”

  Thork took another bite of crue, then shook his head. “Neither you nor I can puzzle out that cipher, my Lady, hence we will deal with that when we come to it. But today I deem we will face Andrak’s holt, and must needs think upon a strategy for it.

  “This I advise: that we gain entry at night, cloaked by darkness, scaling the walls where best suited, if walls there be, else finding some other means to covertly gain entrance.”

  “But if such are not available, Prince Thork, then what say you?” Elyn rolled the blankets and tied one to each of their backpacks.

  “Then we have no choice, my Lady,” answered Thork, finishing the last of his crue biscuit. “We must in that case trust entirely to the stone.” Thork paused. “Still, should it come to that, I deem that we must heed the warning of the Wolfmage and strive to stay out of Andrak’s sight.”

  “Done,” agreed Elyn, standing and shouldering her backpack, waiting as Thork shouldered his. And together they struck out once more toward the north, following a snow-laden valley twisting between two peaks.

  All that morning they broke trail northward, and bit by bit the way became easier, for the wind of the blizzard had scoured the valley, and in places it was clear of snow. And as the day slipped past, the depth of snow they encountered diminished until in general it was less than a foot deep. It was as if the target of the storm of days past had lain southward, back in the direction they had come from.

  In early afternoon they rounded a shoulder of mountain, and there in the near distance before them they could see a dark crag thrusting upward, like a black fang bursting forth from the floor of the valley. And atop this ebon spire stood a walled fortress.

  Little could they tell of the strongholt, for they were still some six miles distant. Even so, they could see that a dark tower jutted up within the bulwarks, as well as a large, black-roofed building—perhaps the main holt. The stone of the fortress was dark, too—“Mayhap basalt,” growled Thork.

  Onward they pressed, while the distant winter Sun crept down the cold sky. As they drew nearer they could make out more detail: To the left they espied another smaller crag, lower and broader at the base, a thin line of light between the two upjuts showing that they were separate, though virtually joined. A road twisted upward out of the valley coiling about this companion, eventually to cross from one crag to the other upon a span of some sort, they deemed, though no such span could they see.

  “Kruk!” spat Thork. “I did not bring my climbing gear.”

  “We have ropes, Thork,” commented Elyn.

  “Aye, Princess,” responded Thork, “but they are not all we need. Rock nails, jams, climbing harness, hammer: that is what is wanted here, for the topmost two or three hundred feet are sheer, and without those aids it will be most difficult to free-climb
the final reach.”

  Closer they drew, slipping among boulders and moving behind ridges, keeping always to the cover of the terrain even though they bore the silveron nugget, for they knew not what eyes scanned from atop the ramparts. And now they had come near enough to see that the fortress walls had an overhang, an outward arch specifically to thwart wall climbers and scaling ladders.

  “Siege engines cannot come at this castle,” Elyn commented. They lay upon their stomachs atop a spine of land and peered upward across the space between. “Oh, mayhap catapults could be placed atop the smaller spire, but towers cannot be brought to bear upon the ramparts, nor can rams of any size be placed to knock upon their gates or walls.”

  “And look, my Lady”—Thork squinted at the place where the road would cross the gap between—“that be where a bridge must span between the spires, yet none be there now. A drawbridge, I ween, or mayhap a swivel.” Thork’s voice fell silent, but his thoughts ran on: Mayhap we will have to free-climb the stone after all.

  Downward slid the Sun through the afternoon sky, and the two pressed onward, slowly drawing nigh their goal. No more could they tell of the fortress construction than they already knew, for it stood high above the floor of the vale, perhaps as much as a thousand feet, and the angle was too great for them to glean aught else.

  As the Sun began to slip below the horizon, Elyn and Thork came to where they could see the road twisting down from the companion spire, winding about the crag on the steep upper part, switching back and forth here and there upon the lower slopes, at last to spill out into the valley and swing to the north to disappear among the stony ribs of nearby mountains.

  Cautiously, in the fading light the two began to aim for the road; for it was clearly the only reasonable pathway up, for to free-climb the vertical rock of the fortress spire would be an arduous task, even for a Dwarf, who clambered up the stone inside Mountain Châkkaholts nearly every day. And though Thork deemed that he could manage it, he doubted that the skills of his plains-bred companion were up to the task. So they headed for the road and the easy way up, trusting to the power of the silveron nugget to somehow conceal them upon this open way. Even so, they knew not how they would cross the gap between spires, yet they knew that they must scout it out, for perchance they could use the rope that they bore to get from this side to the other.

  Darkness fell, and torches were lighted atop the ramparts. Still the walls were too far and the angle too great for the pair to see the watch patrolling the bulwarks.

  As they drew closer, they cut scrub and began brushing away their own tracks behind, for the stone they bore did not conceal this trace of their passage—footprints in the snow—and they did not wish a chance patrol to find evidence that strangers were about.

  Now they drew nigh the road. But ere coming to its surface, in the distance they heard voices shouting; and from afar there came a great rattle of gears, as of winches being spun and ratchets stuttering ’gainst iron teeth, as of a barbican being raised; gates boomed open; more voices shouted, and more gears chattered and a span thrust outward across the gap, bridging between the spires. Then with a clatter of hooves and a thunder of wheels, a troika-drawn chariot hammered out the gate and boomed across the drawbridge, the driver lashing at the trio of beasts in fury, the creatures squealing in pain.

  Down the twisting road careened the two-wheeled juggernaut haled by three steeds, the double-tongued chariot veering, swerving, jolting down the crooked way, the slash of the whip cracking through the air.

  Elyn grasped Thork’s arm and drew him to the cover of a large boulder, and from its protection they watched as the vehicle raced downward, vaguely illuminated by the torchlight shining down from the walls above. But it was quickly lost to Elyn’s vision as it thundered down the lower slopes and out upon the flat, hammering toward the curve bending away to the north. But just as it pounded past, of a sudden the driver haled back hard upon the reins, nearly causing the steeds to stumble and fall, their squeals of pain ringing through the night as they slid to a halt.

  And the driver stood tall in the chariot and cast about, as if he had sensed something, as if he were vile hound seeking after an elusive scent. And he turned his head this way and that, searching for something . . . or someone.

  With his Dwarven vision, Thork could see that the coursers that drew the chariot were Hèlsteeds! Like a horse but not a horse: creatures of the night, they suffered the Ban; snakelike eyes with slitted pupils; scaled tails; cloven hooves; slower than a swift horse but with endurance beyond knowing; another of Gyphon’s creations from Neddra. And the driver was an Elf, or mayhap a Man. Thork could not tell. The only other he had seen of this kind was—The Wolfmage! This, then, was a Wizard as well. Andrak!

  “Andrak,” hissed Thork to Elyn.

  Air sucked in through her clenched teeth, and she drew Thork down behind the boulder, her hand to her neck clenching the silveron stone.

  Long they waited, and no one moved, neither Elyn nor Thork nor what or who was on the road. Yet at last the stalemate was broken, for the middle Hèlsteed grunted and shifted its stance, and the other two ’Steeds in triple-harness squealed in rage, and bit at the first. The Elf, the Man, cursed and lashed at the creatures, and furious, loosed his rein upon the beasts, whipping them in a frenzy. And down the road they hammered, northward, Hèlsteeds squalling in pain, whip cracking in wrath, obscenities shouted into the night.

  After a time passed, Elyn and Thork stood, the Dwarf’s eyes seeking to see the chariot. But it had vanished, racing along the course northward upon some unknown mission.

  “He sensed us, Princess,” grunted Thork. “Mayhap he has power over the stone you bear.”

  “Mayhap,” responded Elyn quietly, “yet it is all that we have to protect us in yon dark holt.”

  “Nay, Lady,” said Thork, “not all, for we also have our wits and weaponry.”

  Elyn smiled. “Aye, Warrior, wits and weaponry, and no little skill.”

  Once more the two started for the castle, wiping out tracks behind, now stepping upon the surface of the road leading to the fortress. And they cast aside the scrub brooms and hefted missile weapons: Elyn her bow; Thork his crossbow. And up the twisting way they passed, stealthily, slowly, keeping to the deepest of shadows; and time slipped beyond recall as they went up the road of the companion spire, at one place coming to a set of stone steps leading upward through the darkness to the top of the mount—these they ignored, keeping to the way that they had seen used.

  At last they came slipping through the shadows to the very top, to the drawbridge now spanning from the small spire to the larger, a bridge that slid upon tracks on the far side, haled by winches and cables, jutting across to allow passage. No guards were posted, and upon this wooden way they crept, above a fearsome fall. From the span they could see torches ringing the ramparts, and they noted the enshadowed movements of warders patrolling above.

  At the far end of the bridge they came to stand upon the top of the larger spire, and the bulwarks of the fortress loomed in the darkness before them. They could see where a gateway stood in the western wall, for the yellow fire of flaming brands shone out through the portal, forming a large arch of light sputtering upon the capstone of the spire. Quietly they stepped along the roadway, a black stone fortress wall looming to their right, a sheer drop plummeting to their left. And they glided alongside the bulwark, keeping to the shadows at its base, slipping forward silently below the overhang, light shining down through arrow loops and murder holes to dimly illume the way before them.

  Now they came unto the gate opening, where the wall they followed opened rightward into the portal, the passage beyond their vision. Handing her bow to Thork, Elyn lay on her stomach and cautiously peered around the angle. The portcullis was down, the great iron grille standing across the way. Flaming cressets lit the way below the barbican, and in the shelter of the arch on this side of the barway stood a guard, a Rutch, scimitar in hand. And in that instance there came a shout
from atop the wall.

  The slap of iron-shod boot rang upon the ramparts, and a clamant uproar sounded from within. Commands snarled from the barbican, and Rutchen warriors scrambled to obey.

  Elyn scurried hindward, and she and Thork drew back against the stone of the wall. Swiftly Thork set their bows aside and they armed themselves for mêlée—saber and axe—as horns blatted and unseen Spawn clotted and scattered within. Yet, amid the clamor, Elyn heard that which made all the other moot: the crack of a whip and the rattle of iron rims racing up the stone road.

  “Andrak!” she hissed. “He comes, and unless we move we are fordone!”

  At that very moment there came a great clatter of gears, and from the archway sounded the squeal of iron screeching upward; the portcullis was being raised. Running footsteps slapped upon cobblestone, and a squad of torch-bearing Rutcha and Drōkha burst forth from the portal and rounded the corner. Elyn whipped her saber up to the guard position, and Thork brought his axe to the ward as well. Yet the running Spawn raced past without a glance, though the two now stood in plain view.

  Louder sounded the crack of whip and the rattle of chariot, as up the lesser spire raced the squealing Hèlsteeds, drawing nigh the top.

  “Come, Thork,” sissed Elyn, “’tis the silveron stone or nought!”

  Catching up their bows, ’round the corner and into the gateway stepped the twain, into the torchlight. The Rutch guard stood before them, facing outward, yet his eyes seemed to look everywhere but directly at them. And behind, the shouting Rutcha and Drōkha fell into formation, flanking the near end of the bridge. And the chatter of iron-rimmed chariot wheels, the slash of whip, the squeal of Hèlsteeds, and the obscenities of a raging driver drew up onto the top of the lesser spire.