Elyn was stunned by the enormity of the wealth, and so, too, was Thork. Neither had ever considered that the Drake had had a trove of his own. They had only thought about recovering the treasure taken from Jordkeep. But now, that seemed a small stake by comparison.
“Princess,” growled Thork, recovering his composure, “this chamber be not the place to waylay the Drake, for though it is open—hence will not channel his flame—still we must go elsewhere, for not only will he have the space to evade the hammer, we cannot withstand this heat overlong.”
“Back to the entrance above?” Elyn asked.
“Aye,” answered Thork, “for it has four advantages: one, there are sheltering boulders at each side, giving us concealment; two, he will be coming from sunshine into darkness; three, he will have less room to move freely and thus will be easier to smite; and, four, he will not be alerted by the light of our lantern, for we will not need it there at the opening.”
“If what they say about Dragonsight is true,” said Elyn, “then be it light or dark, it is of no moment, for whether or no we have a lit lantern, he will see us, no matter. And if what they say about a Dragon’s powers is true, then whether or no we are concealed will not matter either, for he will know we are hidden within. Yet I, too, think the entrance is the best place for ambuscade, for he will be alighting ’pon the ledge, and mayhap be off balance. If so, then that may be the time to strike, between the eyes in the moment of his awkwardness. If not, then when he thrusts his head into the opening. . . .”
And so, back up the slanted tunnel floor they went, back through the twists and turns, back past the belching fumaroles, back out from the heat and toward the day. And behind, a great gleaming pile of riches beyond imagination fell into darkness once more. And ahead lay the place where two warriors sought to waylay a Dragon.
Yet, ere the twain reached the opening, while it was yet some hundred paces or so removed, they heard an enraged roar.
Black Kalgalath had returned.
The two sprinted toward the wide mouth of the cavern, Elyn shouting: “I’ll take the right side, you take the left!” knowing that the right-handed Dwarf could swing harder, swing truer, if the opponent were to his weapon side rather than to his shield.
Again came an earsplitting roar, closer.
Heart pounding, Elyn skidded into position, partially concealed by the rocks flanking the cavern entrance. And she could see the great ebon bulk of Black Kalgalath descending, wings flared and churning, flailing directly toward the cavern opening, legs extended, nearly to the ledge, landing.
Thork, too, saw the great Drake’s vast leathery pinions hammering air, the Dragon ungainly as he brought his massive bulk down upon the shelf. Be he off balance, then that may be the time to strike. Between the eyes in the moment of his awkwardness.
Thork raised the hammer and stepped forth, Kalgalath shrieking in anger, Elyn’s voice lost: “No, Thork, no! Not yet!”
The wing blast whelmed down upon the Dwarf, dashing him backwards, knocking his feet from under him, the hammer lost to his grip and skidding aclatter down the sloping stone into the tunnel, Thork rolling, gaining his feet, darting for the Kammerling, his back to the Dragon.
And Black Kalgalath, now upon the ledge, drew in his breath.
Adon! The Dragonfire! Thork will be—No!
Elyn stepped forth from concealment, shouting, “Wyrm! Here!” and she raised her silver-runed black-oxen horn to her lips and blew a ringing blast: Raw! Raw! Raw!
And Black Kalgalath turned his head and loosed his fire, the flame roaring forth in a torrent, whelming into Elyn, blasting her backwards, slamming her into stone, fire searing over her, burning, destroying.
Thork turned with the hammer in hand and saw her whelmed back—“Elyn!”—hurled to the stone by raging fire. And without thought for his own safety he ran to her and knelt at her side, cradling her in his arms.
And she was burned beyond recognition.
“Elyn!”
She could not see, or feel, yet she heard Thork’s voice—“Elyn!”—calling from far off, the sound of wind all about her as she fell down and down, down toward the Night, down toward swift Death. And she struggled to call out to Thork, to call out what was in her heart, to cry out that one paramount thing ere the darkness came, to speak one last time ere the wings of Night embraced her, ere it was too late, to speak one last time unto her Thork:
“Beloved,” she whispered, and then she was gone.
And Black Kalgalath roared his laughter and stalked forth, thrusting his wide Drake’s head into the entrance, adamantine claws set to rend this weakling before him. Yet in that moment his senses detected that there was a token of power within.—The Kammerling! Fear shot through him, his Dragon eyes seeing past the glamour to the true hammer below. Yet wait! It is not empowered!
“Fools! Did you think to defeat me? I am Kalgalath, slayer of fools.”
At the sound of Kalgalath’s voice, Thork gently lowered Elyn to the stone. Weeping in rage, he took up his shield and fitted it unto his arm, and turned toward this killer who had slain his Elyn, Thork’s very soul consumed by a wrath that penetrated into unfathomed depths of fury, of anger unplumbed, as he reached for the hammer.
“Pah, fool!”—Kalgalath’s voice was filled with scorn—“You know not even how to bring potency to the token.” And he drew in his breath to cleanse his cavern of these vermin, as Thork took up the hammer, the Dwarf’s rage beyond bearing.
And the moment that his grip took the helve in hand, the Kammerling flared into life, the glamour burning away, bright light erupting.
And flame blasted forth from Kalgalath’s throat, thundering over Thork. But the Dwarf had raised his shield, and fire burned away the cloth covering, searing to the glittering skin below. Yet this was no ordinary shield: this was Dragonhide; and the burning jet splashed upon the adamant surface and was fended; flaring outward all about, flames roaring past. Even so, Thork’s leggings were set ablaze, and his hair and beard, yet in his wrath he paid no heed to the burning, for in that moment the Dragonfire died, and a rainbow glitter sprang forth before the Dwarf, the shield opalescent and shining.
And the Rage Hammer burned in Thork’s right hand, powered by a fury beyond bearing, glaring into Black Kalgalath’s eyes, both inner and outer, the shattering light blinding him, the Drake backing away.
“Yaahhh!” cried Thork, running forward, with shining shield and flaring hammer, his face distorted beyond recognition, clothes and beard and hair aflame.
And driven by all the power and fury of his wide Dwarven shoulders, CRACK! Thork smashed the burning Rage Hammer into the forehead of the Fire-drake, the hammer crashing into and through the skull, embedding in bone, lodging in the Dragon’s brain, driving him hindward, Black Kalgalath roaring in agony, thrashing about like a great snake, spewing flame, wings windmilling, teetering on the edge of the ledge, blazing Thork grimly hanging on to the hammer helve, trying to jerk the Kammerling free, trying to smite the Drake once more as he was wrenched back and forth again and again by Black Kalgalath’s wild flailing.
And in his uncontrolled lashing, the Dragon smashed Thork into the side of the mountain, whelming the burning Dwarf against stone, stunning him, the Drake flinging his head back, Thork, bedazed, losing his grip, hurling free, and plummeting like a guttering torch down the face of the sheer stone wall below.
With great brazen bellows, Black Kalgalath took to the air, flames gushing, his flight wild and looping, beyond his control.
Up and up he went, spinning up through the wide canyons between the towering clouds above, up and up, to fly past seeing in the high blue sky beyond.
And as Thork fell afire, below him the stone split, and a great hand reached out and caught him! and drew him inside, into the living stone itself!
Huge forms crowded about, monstrous hands smothering the flames, great crystalline eyes peering: sapphirine, emeraldine, rubescent, xanthic.
Yet the burned Dwarf was stunned, uncompreh
ending, seeing only a glittering in the darkness, knowing not that these were Utruni, ere blackness consumed his mind.
And then from one of the figures came a deep voice—“Dakhu!”—the word urgent; and all gemstone eyes turned upward, as if sighting something far above the mountain, peering past the dark stone roof of the crevice they had drawn Thork into.
And far, far above the Grimwall, high in the sky outside, came a black speck growing: a mortally wounded Dragon hurtling down.
“Shak fhan!” shouted the Utrun holding unconscious Thork, the Stone Giant cupping his hands about the Dwarf’s head and shoulders, the Utrun sitting and curling his body about Thork’s, protecting him with arms and legs as well.
The other Stone Giants seemed to meld into the rock, arms and legs outstretched, fingers and toes clutching stone, anchored in the basalt, muscles straining, as if trying to hold this part of the mountain together by grip and strength alone, as if forming a living barricade, a living shield wall to protect Thork . . . against what . . .
And down came the Dragon, faster and faster, as if he were hurling himself at the earth. Straight down he came, straight and swift, as an arrow loosed from some daemon’s bow. Straight and straight and straight.
And through the very stone itself the Utruni watched the Dragon hurtling down and down and down, the black speck growing larger and larger, until it was an enormous monster rushing to doom. And they braced themselves for what was to come.
And down plummeted Black Kalgalath, Rage Hammer flaring, embedded in his skull, straight down into the gullet of the firemountain, flashing past the crest, down the throat, toward the bottom. And driven by the full mass of a hurtling Dragon, Adon’s Hammer whelmed into the floor of the volcano.
Never had the earth been struck such a blow.
The mountain exploded.
The blast flattened entire forests for sixty miles around, trees blown down like straws in the wind, all pointing away from the center. And it was said that the sound was heard in the Lands beyond the Avagon Sea, and perhaps beyond the Weston Ocean as well. And the entire continent trembled from the whelming. More than half the mountain was blasted into choking dust, an inconceivably vast cloud of pulverized stone flying up into the sky, a hot churning mass of gas and rock and ash and ice, the cloud so hot that where it touched the ground, pitch boiled out from felled pine trees, and animals dropped dead in their tracks, lungs seared beyond recall. For miles, nothing living above ground survived. Hundreds of leagues away, swirling choking clouds of ash descended, suffocating life, snuffing it out. Magma vomited forth from the caldera below. Ice and water in streams under the land exploded in the volcanic heat, spewing hot clouds of ash and steam hundreds and thousands of feet into the sky. Mudflows avalanched, and torrents of snowmelt hurtled down, walls of water crashing over all within their path. Mountain streams became raging monsters, hurling boulders and splintered trees and ash and mud down across the land. Rain fell through the sky, the droplets dark, black with dirt.
For league upon league the land was ruined beyond comprehension.
And for years afterward, all about Mithgar, winters were colder, summers were shorter. Yet spectacular sunsets graced the eventides, and more rain fell upon the world than ever before.
And decades later, in the nights, those travelling through these mountains could see eerie blue flames flaring within the devastated crater—Kalgalath’s ghost-fire, some said.
Yet like a maimed hand, the middle slope of the eastern slant of the mountain still stood upon the base, topped by a vertical wall, a wall that Thork had plummeted down, a wall kept intact by the power of the Stone Giants.
Three Utruni had died in the blast, but the hammer-wielding Dwarf had been saved.
CHAPTER 42
Echoes of Power
Winter’s End, 3E1603
[This Year]
Far to the north in the frozen wastes where the whelming wind thunders endlessly down upon the ’scape, far below the everlasting shriek, down within deep black granite, a shadow sitting upon an ebon throne felt a hammering wave rush through the very fabric of existence, and he knew that a mighty token of power had flared into life. Brightly the energy burned, calling out to all who knew how to read its arcane signature that the might of the Rage Hammer had been unleashed. For long, long minutes it blazed, yet suddenly was quenched. The shadow upon the throne considered possibilities, pondering, wondering if it meant that his plan had come to fruition, wondering if at last it was time to gloat.
“Attend!” he hissed, and scuttling Rūcks within the chamber froze in terror, quailing, and ceased their pointless activity at the banquet table, ceased setting places that would not be used, ceased clearing it away but moments afterward. And they rushed before the throne and flung themselves face down upon the floor, grovelling before the dark presence.
The wickedness coiled past their prostrate forms and to the head of the table, and Foul Folk sprang up and stood behind each chair, as if serving guests at a great feast.
Darkness filled the chamber, and a whispering voice hissed forth, a voice speaking to empty chairs, boasting of deeds done.
“Centuries agone it was I who lulled a Dragon into true sleep,” hissed the shadow. “Not just any Dragon, but Black Kalgalath, himself.
“And I whispered to him of the threat of the Kammerling. Fool that he was, he thought that the hammer was meant for him, as I knew he would. And I played upon these fears, telling him that it was the inattentive Utruni who warded that most dangerous of tokens deep within their halls far down in the living stone of Mithgar. And so I spoke of a time soon to be, when the bright Moon at night would slide into darkness, eclipsed for a while by shadow, a time when the earth would tremble, a time when the Hall of the Giants most certainly would be empty, a time when the uncaring Giants would leave the hammer unguarded, a time when a Drake could enter and take that which threatened, and bear it to one of power who would guard it most zealously.
“I whispered to him the plan that would assure this end, speaking Andrak’s true name into the sleeping Dragon’s ear.
“And Black Kalgalath, fool Kalgalath, took the bait, never knowing that it was I who set this scheme before him.
“When came the eclipse, it was at a time I knew the wandering stars would also be aligned. And I reached down and caused the fault to yield, the stone to slip, the earth to quake in violence.
“Then did the Giants rush through the rock to smooth the join, to ease the strain, to quell the tremor.
“Then was the Hall abandoned, as I knew it would be.
“Then did the Drake slither down into the juddering earth and take the token from its place of safety—safe from all, perhaps, but Wizards and Dragons working in concert, even though the Dragon knew it not, and then only at the time of the Grand Alignment—to take this token from its place of safety, the Drake bearing it to the holt of Andrak, a place where it could be stolen by the strong or the cunning or the fortunate, or by those of the prophecy, a prophecy made possible by me.
“This was my plan: that sooner or later someone would steal the Rage Hammer, someone with the skill to use it—”
—Of a sudden, the black granite chamber juddered, shock hammering through, as if the very world itself had been struck a whelming blow. Stone jolted and shuddered, crockery and pewter rattling aclatter, Rūcks crying out in fear, reeling back, terrified eyes staring at the stone above, fearing that it would come crashing down.
The dark hall filled with blackness as the malevolent presence within sought to determine the cause of this battering, his senses swelling upward and outward, seeking the culprit, only to discover that it came from afar, from southward, whence had flared the Rage Hammer, now quenched.
“Out,” he hissed, and lackeys scrambled to obey, vacating the chamber, fleeing their master’s wrath.
The darkness gathered upon the ebon throne as Modru cast forth his mind, reaching out unto the world, reaching forth unto the Grimwall Mountains, seeking the vacan
t mind tended by those who watched Dragonslair from afar, seeking the one who would serve as his host. Yet, no empty mind, no hollow vessel, was waiting, waiting the touch of the Master, waiting to be filled with his essence.
It was as if the surrogate had been destroyed.
Angered, once again Modru cast forth his mind, this time seeking the one who served as his host within Andrak’s strongholt. But he was once more thwarted, for again no empty mind stood waiting.
Here too, it was as if the vessel had been destroyed.
Enraged, Modru shouted his anger, and elsewhere within, Rūcks scuttled and scrabbled and bolted to far chambers, running, hiding, scrambling ’neath tables and chairs and beds, seeking safety in closets and recesses, niches and coverts, fleeing to anywhere they might escape his fury.
And Modru cast forth his mind yet a third time, now seeking not Human vessels, but instead one of the Foul Folk deep within the twisting cracks far below the earth in distant Carph. And the great malevolence rushed into the waiting emissary, filling the empty mind, possessing it, evil glaring forth to see lackeys grovelling upon the stone.
“Go!” he hissed. “Unto Andrak’s holt. Unto Dragonslair. Take my surrogate so that I may see.”
Then the great evil was gone, fled back unto the dark domain deep below the icy Barrens; while behind, shaken Spawn looked into the drooling face before them, now empty of all spark. And then they turned away and began gathering together that which would be needed in the long weeks ahead, as they prepared to set forth to do their Master’s bidding.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 48