Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Thork sat down and poured two cups of tea, motioning Elyn to sit and take one. “Two pack ponies, two riding, four in all, each with tack and gear. Four weeks of supplies: rice, beans, tea, bacon, jerky, dried fish, onions, salt, hardtack, spiced honey, and the like for us; and oats and barley for the ponies. And oil for your lantern to light your way if we should again come into the dark.”

  Elyn’s eyes widened in amazement, and she set her tea aside and clapped her hands, “Hai!” a smile on her face. “Thork, you are a marvel! All of that just for two tulwars, a dagger and long-knife, a helm, some second-rate armor, and . . .” In the corner, heaped in a pile, was all the gear that she had brought in for trading. “. . . and . . .” Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. “Just what did you give them?”

  “They had no use for the battle gear,” said Thork, clearing his throat.

  “What did you barter away?” Elyn’s voice was sharp.

  “The horse, Princess, and all its—”

  “You gave away my horse?”

  “Nay, Princess. I didn’t give it away. I traded—”

  “For a pony?”

  “For four ponies and four weeks of—”

  “Gods, Thork, Harlingar do not ride ponies! Not even as children!”

  When the servants brought the two demons their sleeping mats and blankets and evening meals, they sat on completely opposite sides of the room, glaring daggers at one another; and Haisu, Josai, and Meia quickly set the trays and blankets and mats down and scuttled out backwards, bowing and scraping as they went, the three sisters wanting to be far away before the two ired demons changed.

  The next morning, armed and armored, Elyn and Thork set forth from the village, riding sturdy mountain ponies, sitting upon saddles covered with sheepskin, two pack ponies trailing behind upon long tethers, bearing their kits and provisions and the brigands’ War gear: two tulwars, a dagger, a long-knife, a helm, and two leather ring-mail shirts. Elyn, still angry, glared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge even the presence of the headman riding alongside upon a fine gelding, a great smile upon his yellow face. Old Tai hobbled out as they passed his hut, and he handed Thork a smooth, supple birch stick, some four feet long, the old Man’s head bobbing up and down knowingly. Thork took it and mumbled his thanks, tucking it through the thongs holding the blanket roll behind his saddle. And down the mountainside they rode, the villagers behind heaving a great sigh of relief, for the demons appeared to be leaving, and they had not changed a single time; and to be rid of them before they took it in their heads to do so, well, that was certainly a blessing in itself. Of course, there was still to be that demon horse among them, now ridden by the hetman, the brave, respectful, perhaps foolish hetman, who followed the white-skinned, green-eyed, redheaded, angry demon and the squat, broad, bearded, sad-eyed demon, all the way to the foot of the village trail, where he stopped and waved good-bye as they rode onward. But then Heido turned and spurred his great steed back up the path, the gelding grunting beneath his portly load; and with cries of terror and distress, the villagers scattered to all points, fleeing into their huts.

  Throughout the long morning the two rode in silence, dismounting and walking now and again to give the rugged little mountain ponies a breather, and stopping once each hour to water them or to feed them a mouthful or two of grain.

  And as the Sun passed into the zenith, Elyn was no longer angry, accepting instead that she must look the fool, perched as she was upon a horseling, her long legs dangling down, picturing it in her mind, picturing what it would look like if it were Mala instead, and suppressing laughter. And looking at Thork’s back as he rode before her, pack pony trailing behind—Ah, my rugged, honorable Dwarf, I cannot remain angry at you. You struck a better bargain by far than I could have hoped for. You even thought to get me lantern oil for the dark.

  When they broke for their noon meal, Elyn smiled at Thork and straightforwardly apologized, and he heaved a great sigh of relief, though he did not cast away the stick.

  That night, as the two slept, they did not see the great pair of crystal eyes peering into their camp from the dark.

  The next day as they moved westward, Elyn said, “I remind you, Thork, that I must train in the wielding of the hammer. I but barely know how to hold one, for I specialized in the saber, in the bow, in long-knife and quarterstaff and lance and spear and sling.”

  “Chariot, too,” laughed Thork, adding to her long list.

  “Ah yes, chariot too.” Elyn smiled, thinking of Ruric. Ho, lass, the chariot too? . . . toys raced during the midyear fest . . . Warrior Maid charioteers be a thing o’ the past.

  And so it was that Thork began training Elyn in the use of the Kammerling. While they rode he discussed with her the strategies and tactics in using a hammer; and during the times they stopped to rest the ponies, he stepped her through slow drills with the Kammerling, showing her rudimentary offensive and defensive moves and positions. She was amazed at the smooth feel and heft of the glamoured weapon, its touch and balance belying its timeworn, damaged look. Elyn had briefly trained in hammer battle under Ruric’s watchful eye—Come on, lass, ’tis not that heavy—yet her major preparation then had been on how to counteract the mauls—Aye, that be the right o’ it. Let it swing past, then cut and thrust—rather than how to employ them in combat. But now Thork began to show her the other side of hammer warfare, and started her upon exercises to perfect.

  “We need build your arm strength, Princess,” mused Thork that evening, as they returned to the fire. “Wielding a hammer takes power as well as quickness, else the weight will drag you down.”

  And toward evening they passed through a high-walled canyon filled with deep drifts—for it was yet the cold season—coming down out of the last of the mountains and out upon the snowy flats, miles of winter forest and open plains and rolling hills ahead ere they would reach the foothills of the Grimwall, and more miles through that range before coming unto Dragonslair.

  And behind, on the canyon wall high above, stone quietly fissured and a crack eased open as the two rode past unheeding. And when they had ridden on, the rift closed, the cleft sealed, the stone was once more unblemished, and a distant knelling faintly echoed through the deep rock.

  And so the days passed, the duo ever moving westward, Elyn training in hammer as they went, and building up the strength in her arms.

  And each evening, as she curried the ponies, singing softly to them, Thork set up camp and kindled the fire and fixed the meals. And he would sit and stir the stew or soup, or—had he or Elyn brought down small game by bow or sling—cook meat above the flames. And Thork would listen entranced, catching glimpses of her face and eyes and graceful movements as she stepped among the steeds, caring for them. At times he would have to look away as she came to the fire, her beauty all too bright for his eyes. And she for her part watched him wielding the hammer as he illustrated a point, seeing his strength and quickness; or she listened as he fervently explained some detail, and saw his intensity and intelligence, and his rough-hewn gentleness. And she would sit at the fire and watch as he shaped wood with a knife, his fingers sturdy and capable, carving tiny animals to while away the evening, or making a flute that neither of them could play, though the notes were true.

  And occasionally, while setting up camp or taking a meal, they would touch one another, and shy away from the contact.

  She is not Châkian.

  He is not Man.

  And slowly, westward they went, at times making little progress, for it was winter and the snow deep.

  They were caught in a blizzard for three days, and camped out in the shelter of a pine forest. The nights became nearly unbearable, the temperature falling to drastic depths; and fully clothed, they slept together under the same blankets for warmth, arms clasped about one another. Yet this gave them pause, for blood ran hot even though the past reached down through time to stay them, honor and tradition barring the way. And so when they could, when the weather turned for the better,
when the nights were not as frigid, once again they slept apart.

  But it was at this time of togetherness in the night, under the same blankets, arms about one another, when they were talking most quietly, their words soft upon the darkness, that suddenly Thork fell silent, cocking his head to one side, as if trying to hear an elusive sound. “Hist” he whispered and pressed his ear to the frozen ground, listening a moment, then motioning Elyn to do the same.

  Thinking perhaps he heard oncoming danger, pursuit, attack, Elyn placed her own ear to the earth. It was not the sound of hooves, not the sound of a chase or hunt she heard, but rather a faint, deep knelling, rhythmic, patterned, as if it were someone delving, or signalling.

  “This is the same as I heard just after Andrak’s spire fell,” she whispered. “What is it, Thork?”

  “Châkka call it Utruni signalling,” he answered, “though we are not certain at all that it is a sound made by the Stone Giants.

  “Listen to its pattern, Princess. To me it is familiar in its cadence, as hammer-signalling through the stone, though I cannot read it.”

  Now Elyn remembered the conversation they had had as they stood before the tapestry within the Wizard’s holt of Black Mountain. And in her mind rose the vision of the great being with the jewels for eyes.

  “They say that evil flees when the Earthmasters are about,” murmured Thork. “Though I think that is but an eld Châkia’s tale.”

  Long they listened, strangely comforted as the signalling went on, eventually the two falling asleep. And eld Châkia’s tale or not, they slept soundly, as far below the faint knelling continued throughout the night, a deep heartbeat within the earth. Finally, as dawn approached, the tapping fell silent, the distant sounds stopping at last.

  Weeks passed, winter deepening, as they slowly crossed the silent land by day, nought but the wind shushing o’er the open space. Yet every night as they listened to the earth, the tapping continued in the depths far below, as if the signals followed them.

  At last they came to a small town, where Thork traded the brigands’ armor and weaponry and Elyn’s pony and tack for a chestnut horse with bridle and saddle, and more supplies for the trail. And when they set out westward, Elyn rode proudly, a high Warrior Maiden once again, though it affected not at all the undercurrents running between the twain.

  And there came an evening when Elyn sat by the fire, poking at it with a stick, and she asked Thork what the birch rod was for. When he told her the full tale, of old Tai’s advice, she smiled and shook her head. “It was best that you said nought when we were in that village,” she said with good humor, “for I deem I would have taken the rod to him.”

  “Aye, and to me too, I think,” added Thork, laughing.

  After long minutes, “Adon, but we are a good team, Thork,” declared Elyn. “Mayhap after we slay Black Kalgalath and stop the War”—her words admitting to no possibility of defeat, no way of not accomplishing their sworn goal—“divide the treasure, and bring peace between our two Folk, mayhap we should take to the road as sellswords . . . or in my case a sellsword, in your case a sellaxe.” Elyn fell silent for a moment, then added: “Ah, Thork, what I am trying to say is that I do not want this to end.”

  Thork saw that there were tears in her eyes, and his own heart swelled with an emotion that threatened to overwhelm him, and he stood and walked to the extent of the firelight. And after a while, Elyn joined him, standing at his side. “Me too, Princess,” he said at last, his voice hoarse, his hand reaching out. “I do not want it to end either.”

  And they stood beneath the crystal skies with the myriad bright stars wheeling above, staring out across the softly glinting snow, looking into the night, her hand in his.

  Westerly they rode, along the trail they had followed to the east, Thork unwinding their journey, crossing the same wilderness, wending among the same hills and forests, passing through the same hamlets and by the same farms and cottages as they had passed in the opposite direction. And they took the opportunities to quarter in inns and eat large meals and take hot baths using soap, or to stay in haylofts if it was a crofter’s place where they stopped for the night, or to sleep in cabins if a hunter’s cote they shared.

  At times the snow fell gently about them; at other times the wind was cruel, forcing them to seek shelter; and there were days when the Sun glared down upon the snowfield, threatening their sight had they not worn the slitted shades. Yet there were also days when the world seemed soft and yielding, and all appeared in harmony; but even on these most gentle days, still the snow lay across the land and the way west was slow.

  Even so, the tapping deep within the stone followed them, keeping pace with their journey.

  And Elyn’s training at the hammer continued, her skill improving dramatically, though she could not match Thork’s.

  As winter rose out of its depths and stepped toward spring, at long last the wayfarers came unto the borders of the Wolfwood, and Greylight and the Draega escorted them through. But of the Wolfmage they saw nothing, though at times a great dark Silver Wolf could be seen in the distance, pacing them far aflank.

  And once again, when the two rode forth from the marge of that wood, Greylight and his pack lifted their muzzles to the sky and long lornful howls filled the air as the Draega sang out their songs of calling, or keened their dirges of mourning.

  Long did Elyn and Thork ride across the wide land ere the knells of the Silver Wolves became too faint to hear.

  Ere reaching the margins of the Khalian Mire, Thork swung somewhat northerly of west, aiming for the Grimwall, his track bearing them above the great bog, for now they were heading toward Dragonslair.

  Finally they came into the mountains, slopes covered by pine, though the white-capped crests were bare, Thork leading them through deep vales as they talked about the future, about becoming sellswords, about living a dream. And now there were days, when the Sun shone bright, that water would cascade down from snowmelt and dash through the evergreens, filling the air with its sound. And on the sunward side of the lee of a boulder, Thork showed Elyn a snowflower, perhaps the first of the year, its blue blossom bravely thrusting out from a shallow layer of snow, petals fluttering in the chill breeze; and she gazed upon this promise of life renewed, tears springing to her eyes; and hand in hand they looked at it long ere moving onward.

  As they passed deeper into the forested mountains, the deep-earth tapping, the signalling, grew louder, as if coming closer, much closer. At times, they would hear stone splitting, as if walls above fissured, yet when they looked up through the trees, they saw nought but unmarred rock upon the nearby mountain walls.

  There came a day they topped a rise and curved about the face of a bluff, and there in the near distance before them towered a mountain unlike all others: roughly conical it was and dark, and jaggedly truncated, as if its peak had been wrenched off; and wisps of steam and occasional smoke curled up from its broken crest.

  And as the echo of cleaving stone sounded about them, Elyn and Thork each took a deep breath and glanced at one another.

  At last they had come unto Dragonslair.

  CHAPTER 40

  In the Shadows of Giants

  Winter’s End, 3E1603

  [This Year]

  Deep within the roots of the earth, down within a burning caldera, far below the lair above, something disturbed Black Kalgalath’s fiery dreams of conquest and subjugation.

  Something from outside.

  From above.

  Upon the land.

  It was not an ordinary animal—deer, elk, bear, mountain goat or sheep, or the like—moving through his domain that brought him awake, for animals had not the auras which would alert him. Nay, this was of higher intelligence.

  A possible threat.

  Black Kalgalath’s etheric being flew upward and into his corporeal form, and one of his true eyes slid open and he peered into the blackness of his lair, seeing everything, even though surrounded by darkness absolute. For among Dragonk
ind, outer eye and inner eye are one and the same, their sight encompassing all, perceiving the normal, and seeing the hidden, the unseen, the invisible as well.

  Yet it was not his eyes that Black Kalgalath used to investigate his domain for intruders, but rather a casting forth of his senses, searching for encroachers.

  Utruni!

  Kalgalath was faintly surprised, for though at rare times he had sensed these gentle beings, it was always from afar, the Giants moving deep within the land in ones and twos and threes, hewing to courses that only they understood, working the stone, shaping the world. Yet now, here were seven, and nearly at the surface.

  Why? Have they come for belated vengeance?

  Pah! They know not that it was I who took the Kammerling from their unattended hall.

  Black Kalgalath’s mind hurtled back to a time twelve centuries agone, a time that he had fallen into a true sleep, and a dream had come whispering unto him, a prophetic dream, a dream hissing of the Kammerling and its threat to the greatest Dragon of all. Offering sly suggestions as to how the hammer should be guarded by someone alert and dangerous, rather than by these inattentive, peaceful Giants. Whispers sissing Andrak’s true name. Spectral words speaking of the coming eclipse of the Moon, when the shadow would eat the silvery orb, when the earth would shake, when the Kammerling would be unguarded. And when Black Kalgalath had awakened from this sleep, from this dream, the Dragon had cast forth his senses and tried to capture the elusive trail of the essence of the dream; yet it was faint, dissipated, perhaps not at all, and there was but the barest notion that perhaps it led northward, into the frozen barrens, where only Modru dwelt. Yet Modru would have no cause to aid Black Kalgalath, for Black Kalgalath had refused to aid Modru in the time of the Great War. And so the mighty Fire-drake accepted the fact that he had glimpsed the future, that he had had a dream of portent, a true prophecy. After all, omens and forewarnings always came in times of dire need, and this was a matter of survival for the Dragon: to take the Kammerling from the stewardship of these inattentive Giants; to place the hammer where it would be protected by someone of power who had cause to fear its removal. And so on the night of that long-ago eclipse, when the shadow ate the Moon, while the land rumbled and trembled, he slithered through the hidden cavern, coiling deep down into the bowels of the earth, deep down into the empty halls of the Utruni, and there he took the Kammerling and fled. To the east. To Xian. To Andrak. And he struck a bargain with the Mage. . . .