But that was long ago and this was now. And at this moment, seven Utruni came into his domain. Seeking what, he did not know. But it could not be the Kammerling, for that was long gone to Xian. And it could not be for revenge, for they did not know that he had taken it; only Andrak knew, and the Mage would not tell, else his true name would be revealed. And it could not be to take the Fire-drake’s treasure, his hoard, for what need would Utruni have for gold, for silver, for jewels? Did they not have the wealth of the world at hand—vast deposits of precious metals, hoards of gems—all theirs for the taking? Were they not the Masters of the Earth?
A puzzle, this: Utruni in his domain. A threat? He did not think so, yet even were it so, still it was uncertain what he would do. A Drake does not care to tangle with an Utrun; it is not at all certain who would emerge the victor, not at all certain whether a Dragon even could survive such a battle . . . or for that matter, whether the Giant would survive. For although Dragons have unimaginable strength, and claws like adamantine, and hides tougher than the finest steel, and although Fire-drakes breathe flame, and Cold-drakes poisonous acid, still, Utruni can split the hardest stone and metals with their bare hands, and lift and move masses beyond comprehension, and survive in the incredibly hostile environment found deep within the earth, though it is not known how. Yet it is unlikely that such a battle would ever take place, for Dragons avoid confrontations with these beings, and with rare exceptions, Utruni abstain from conflict altogether.
Hence, Black Kalgalath thought of these Giants, and their gentle nature, and decided that they knew not his part in the stealing of the Kammerling, the taking of an item within their care; and he knew that they had no use for treasure; and so he concluded that even now, even here, they simply moved through the stone, shaping the land, as was their wont.
And the Dragon sank back into his caldera, sank back into his dreams.
And he did not note that there were two others upon the land as well, coming closer, walking in the shadows of Giants.
Three days later, again Black Kalgalath awakened, ravenous hunger driving him up from his wicked dreams. He cast out his senses, and still the Utruni were within the land. Once more the Drake thought upon this puzzle, trying to reason out why Giants would be nearby, moving through this land, why Giants would now be at the foot of Dragonslair. But his stomach writhed, breaking his concentration, voracious hunger demanding that he find food. And so once more he concluded that the Utruni posed no threat, as he slithered up the twisting cavern, up through the dark lava rock and black obsidian, up to the exit and out upon the ledge. And just as the first of the Sun edged unto the horizon in the breaking dawn, its horizontal light sliding down the sides of Dragonslair, Black Kalgalath belled a great roar that thundered and slapped throughout the nearby peaks, causing snow to avalanche and rocks to cascade down. Again he roared, and with a mighty leap, launched himself skyward, his vast leathery pinions lifting him into the morning light.
Up and up he mounted, ever higher, and then westward he sped, toward Jord, toward the remnants of the cattle herd he’d scattered upon the plains.
Belly filled, Black Kalgalath’s flight now took him southward, toward Kachar, for he had not harassed that Dwarvenholt for more than two full seasons: when, in his quest to wreak vengeance upon Elgo’s kith, he had fallen upon Men and Dwarves locked in War with one another; when he had harried the Men, pursuing them, killing them; when he had discovered the foul truce between Man and Dwarf and had slain many and had driven the enemies inside a stone prison together, and had buried the gate, trapping the belligerents in an unbreakable embrace that they would come to rue. Not since the days after, when he had slaughtered a Dwarven work party at the rubble before the gate, not since those days had he displayed his prowess unto these puny creatures.
Yet now he would do so once again.
And so, at winter’s end, midmorn of the day of the spring equinox, Black Kalgalath hammered across the sky and unto the Dwarvenholt of Kachar, brutality and violence in his thoughts.
Sentries stood before closed gates when at last the Drake arrived, and with cries of terror they fled through side posterns as his deafening roars rent the air, splitting it asunder, for he was enraged to find that the portal was no longer buried. And in a frenzy, he whelmed upon the great iron doors, BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! reverberating thunderously within. Yet the gates held, and furious, he flew to the mountainside above and clawed and shattered rock, raining boulders and slabs and scree upon the portal below, filling the forecourt and beyond, tons and tons of granite and schist and basalt thundering down, a great sliding mass ramping upward, the talus reaching out into the vale and sloping upward far beyond the top of the gate.
Now, let these insignificant fools dig free of that! And when they are nearly finished, then will I return and cover it over again!
It was midafternoon when Black Kalgalath flew back into the mountains nigh Dragonslair. And as he neared, he cast forth his senses, seeking Utruni. And the Dragon exploded in rage, for the Giants were high up in the dormant firemountain, and someone within the lair itself threatened his very hoard!
CHAPTER 41
Dragonslair
Winter’s End, 3E1603
[The Present]
“There it be, Princess,’ growled Thork, pointing. “Dragonslair. Home, they say, to Black Kalgalath.” Yet Elyn did not need Thork’s words to know that the dark mass ahead was the legendary abode of the Drake. That it was the firemountain they sought, she had no doubt, for vapors vented from the jagged truncation atop the bulky massifs.
“Where is his covert, Thork, or at least the entrance?” Elyn’s eyes futilely scanned the slopes for some sign of an opening.
“I know not,” responded Thork. “Whether this side or the opposite—or even within the core—I cannot say. Not even the Châkka Loremasters know.”
Again the sound of cleaving stone cracked through the air about them, yet no sign of broken rock did they see. Still, even though it was nigh spring, deep snow yet lay upon the slopes, and ice often split stone asunder beneath the whiteness, especially at this time of year when the melt of the day trickles into cracks and crevices to become rending ice in the night. But Thork had never before heard such frequent splitting of rock; it was as if someone quarried stone deliberately. And he cautioned Elyn against the slides that at times followed the rending of rock above.
Yet now their attention was upon dark Dragonslair, looming miles ahead. Long their sight searched the distant slopes, but no sign of the entrance to the den did they see, for it was yet too far to make out that manner of detail. Still it drew their eyes as would a lodestone draw upon iron, but at last, they moved onward, down the slant before them, heading into the vale leading toward the foot of Dragonslair.
Two days later Elyn and Thork made camp at the base of the mountain. They had seen no sign of Black Kalgalath’s whereabouts, and it was not certain that any Dragon lived here at all.
“Thork, this mountain is enormous,” said Elyn, her hand shielding her eyes from the Sun, her sight scanning the slopes above. “It could take days, weeks, months, just to discover an entrance to the lair.”
... needle in a haycock . . .
“Aye,” responded Thork, brushing away snow and setting rocks in a fire ring. “And this side—”
“Draw him out,” interrupted Elyn. “Mayhap we should do something to lure him forth from his den, lure him to us, then fight him here, in the open.”
“You forget, Princess, Black Kalgalath flies.” Thork struck flint to steel, sparks flicking into the tinder. Blowing upon the shavings, the Dwarf coaxed forth a tiny flame, and fed it dried leaves and twigs and finally larger branches, and quickly had a small smokeless fire burning, setting a pot of water to boil for tea. “Nay, to draw him to us would be to yield to him that advantage, and he would strike us down from above with his flame.
“It is best that we ambush him within his cave as we planned, where he cannot get above us and evade the hammer.”
“But that requires we find his cavern,” said Elyn, again scanning the mountainside, “and at the moment I have little confidence that we can do so.”
Thork eyed the position of the lowering Sun, gauging how much daylight remained ere he would extinguish the fire so that no gleam through the night would reveal their position to hostile eyes upon the Mountain above. Then, scanning those same slopes, long he looked, at last remarking, “Forget not, my Lady, you are with a Châk, and we have a sense concerning where to seek caverns.”
One to guide . . .
Elyn’s doubts lessened with Thork’s words, though her hand strayed to her throat where once there had dangled a silveron nugget, and, feeling somehow exposed, she wondered whether a Drake did know of all that passed within his domain.
They took a small supper as the Sun slid down the sky: smoke-cured venison from a hunter’s larder, hardtack and honey, and tea.
The next morning at dawn, Elyn bolted upright from her sleep, a thunderous roar slapping among the mountains, causing snow to avalanche and rocks to tumble.
The Drake!
Thork was on his feet, axe in hand, ready for combat, though how he came to be there, he did not know.
Again the roar crashed among the crags, and Elyn, now on her feet as well, saber in hand, whirled and faced the mountain.
“There, Thork!” she cried, pointing with the blade. “High up! ’Tis Kalgalath!”
But Thork had already seen the mighty Fire-drake, launching upward and outward, the great dark wings bearing it to the west.
“Did you see?” Elyn’s eyes never wavered from the ledge high above, setting off its exact location in her mind.
“Aye, Princess.” Thork, too, noted the specific place whence the Drake had sprung. “Ledge. Above that sheer facing. Left of the tall crag. Do you mark it?”
“Aye, Thork,” answered Elyn. “Under the dark stone. Right of the great crack.”
Agreeing with her, Thork set aside his axe, taking up his cloth-covered shield and slinging it across his back. He slipped the strap of a waterskin and a small bag of rations over one shoulder, and slid the Kammerling into his belt. Looping a coiled rope over his other shoulder, he turned to the Princess, who was likewise preparing for the climb, searching among the supplies for the small oil lantern. When she was ready, she grimly nodded to the Dwarf.
And thus they set off up the slopes, afoot, to slay a Dragon in its lair.
It took all morning to reach the vertical face below the ledge, some six hours of arduous, dangerous, icy ascent, Thork showing Elyn the way upward, through ice and snow and barren rock. And though it did not seem so from below, lying over all was a treacherous frozen glaze, and often hands slipped, or feet, Death waiting below. Yet Thork’s skill was equal to the task for both he and Elyn. And so, up the mountain they crept, Thork leading up the icy way, telling Elyn where to place hands and feet, guiding her, until at last they came to the foot of the vertical rise.
While Elyn rested, Thork moved to the far left, across the rime-covered stone, examining the crevice splitting upward, then to the far right where stood the tall crag. Finally, stripping out of his black-iron chain and hunkering down beside Elyn—“The crack to the left is choked with ice, and I have not the proper gear. The crag to the right splits away from the ledge, and up high the chimney is too wide for my body to span, while down low, it too is filled with ice. There be nought left but the perpendicular; I must free-climb the vertical face.”
Another hour passed as Thork crept up the sheer wall, completely without aids, no jams or rock-nails, no rings or harness, just fingers and feet and strength and skill, Elyn standing below, her heart in her throat, watching him find handholds and toeholds where she saw none. At last he clambered over the lip of the ledge, disappearing from view. Moments later he reappeared, feeding a rope downward. “A great cavern, Princess,” he called. “From the smell of it, the lair.”
Elyn tied all of the goods to the line, including the Kammerling, shield, her saber, his armor, and the supplies, finally calling out to Thork. Up he hauled, the equipment disappearing over the lip of the ledge. Then downward again snaked the rope.
Elyn grasped the line and began a hand-over-hand ascent . . .
Come on, lass, a Warrior Maid needs this skill. Would ye have a battle lost because ye couldn’t scale a wall?
. . . echoes of Ruric in her mind.
Up she climbed in the airy wind, feet scrabbling against ice-glazed stone, rope abrading her grip through her gloves, a sheer drop below her.
Gods, I did not know that struggling about upon a mountain could be so frightening.
Though fear thrilled through her, still this Woman of the plains clambered upward, hanging by a slender thread above a towering plunge, creeping ever closer to the safety of a Dragon’s lair.
As she came to the top, Thork reached out. “Give me your hand, Princess. I will pull you up.”
Elyn hesitated, glancing downward at the fall below.
Then his voice came soft and gentle: “I will not drop you.”
Elyn gave her grip to Thork, and he haled her upward and onto the broad ledge.
They rested a moment upon the shelf, Elyn with her gloves off, flexing her fingers and regaining her wind and looking about as Thork donned his armor, the Warrior Maiden seeing a wide dark opening in the wall of stone rising up, and a great ledge spread from here to yon—
“Ai-oi!” she cried, pointing to the near end of the shelf, where lay a great bashed sheet of iron. “ ’Tis the cladding from the gate of Jordkeep. This, then, is Black Kalgalath’s lair, for within that ‘vessel’ he bore away the treasure from the ruins of my sire’s castle.”
Thork stepped to the sheet of iron, and hefted upon a corner, managing but to rock it. “Too heavy for us to use, Princess.”
He returned and took up the Kammerling, looking long at the appearance of rust and cracked helve and broken peen, his mind elsewhere. “Remember our plan, my Lady: we seek a place from which to ambush the Drake, mayhap at the entrance to his lair, mayhap deeper.” Thork slid the Kammerling into his belt and untied the rope from its anchoring boulder and began coiling the line. “Should I fall in battle, seize the Kammerling and finish the task.”
A cold chill shivered through Elyn . . .
Should I fall in battle, should I fall, I fall . . .
... yet she said nought as she looped the strap of her black-oxen horn across shoulder and chest. Buckling on her saber, at last she spoke: “Thork, should you fall in battle and should I survive, I here and now renew my pledge to you: I will do all within my power to stop this mistaken War between our two Folk, to stop the killing. I will share and share alike all Dracongield between Jord and Kachar, and make whatever other amends are appropriate, cancelling all debts.”
Yet were you to fall in battle . . .
Elyn’s heart fell bleak.
“My Lady, this pledge between us need not be renewed here and now, for it exists within each of us forever . . . whether or no it is said aloud again. Yet, would it please you to hear the words, then I do so swear once more.” Thork took up Elyn’s lantern, preparing to light it.
“There is this, too, Thork,” said Elyn, shouldering her portion of the supplies: “Should we both fall in this battle, then still there is a promise of peace . . . whether or not we survive. For no hatred, no vengeance, no neglect is passed on forever; each must come to rest somewhere, to vanish in the eternity of time or to die under the weight of love.
“Yet let us not speak of survival and death, for today marks the end of winter: it is the first day of spring.”
Thork glanced at the Sun above, and then to the dark entrance to the den. Handing Elyn’s lit lantern unto her—“Let us be gone,” he said, his voice husky with emotion.
And so, Thork bearing his shield on his left arm and the Kammerling in his right grip, and Elyn clutching the lantern in one hand and saber in the other, their hearts hammering and their breath harsh, down into th
e cavern they went, the floor sloping inward and down, the wide walls curving this way and that, the lamp lighting the way, an acrid odor filling the air about them, as of a viper pit.
At every twist and turn, at every lieu, both warriors eyed the lay of the cavern, judging, seeking a place of ambush that would give them advantage over the Drake’s great strength and over his fiery breath.
Deeper they went, and deeper still, down a slanting floor, the air becoming hot and hotter, the walls of the tunnel itself emitting heat, the smell of brimstone tingeing the air. Yet on they went, the faint light from the entrance long gone, and here even Thork’s Dwarven sight needed Elyn’s lantern to see by.
Past belching fumaroles they went, the odor horrific, the gas yellow, roiling upward through clefts and chimneys cloven through the shattered stone above and disappearing into the churning darkness.
At last they came down into a large chamber, walls disappearing in darkness, where intense heat caused sweat to runnel beneath armor, both Elyn and Thork pausing to drink copious quantities of water. As she drank, in the distant darkness, a gleam caught Elyn’s eye; corking the waterskin, she held up the lantern, stepping toward the glimmer. And as she strode forward, more and more sparkle scintillated to the eye. At last she came to where she could clearly see, and there heaped upon the floor and ramping upward lay an enormous mound of glittering treasure: gold and silver, gems and goblets, pearls and precious stones, and the like. The vast pile stood more than Man height, and reached outward to cover yard after yard of cavern floor: more than the total hoard of Sleeth, more than either Elyn or Thork had ever dreamed possible. For this was the hoard of Black Kalgalath, mightiest Dragon of all.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 47