An Empire Unacquainted With Defeat

by Glen Cook

  Olav was shaking. He tried the door, but found it locked from within.

  "Old Olav, I think you're afraid!" said Silverheels. He thought it was all very exciting. Olav and Faith glared at him. He danced with joy at the prospect of a battle with dragons.

  "Foolish kitten!" said Faith, shivering. "You'll dance to a different tune when the dragons come."

  The dragons flew three times round the tower before diving at the three. First came Ironclaw, spouting smoke and flame, then the White Dragon, attacking with his claws. The flame of the first dragon was turned by the huldre-king's spell. The claws of the second were unable to reach the friends because they were crouched beneath the battlements. As Hookfang wheeled up into the endless evening sky, Silverheels jumped atop the ramparts. He arced his back, puffed up his fur, and said some very unkittenish things. Olav pulled him down just in time to escape Ironclaw's second attack.

  The three crouched under those battlements for a long time. The two great dragons swooped and swooped above them, like falcons after prey. The king's spell turned fire, the stone turned claw, and it looked like nothing was going to happen. But old Olav was finding his lost courage by exposing himself each time he had to pull Silverheels down off the perilous battlements.

  The dragons grew angrier and angrier because they were unable to harm these three puny enemies. Then Ironclaw, the elder of the two, swooped too low and caught a claw in a crack between stones. The talon broke. The Red Dragon sailed upward, bellowing terribly. Old Olav finally took heart. The dragons could be hurt after all.

  When Ironclaw next came winging down, he tried to land on the small turret, apparently thinking he could win the battle simply by dropping his great weight atop the three. The three friends huddled beneath the battlements, trying to avoid claws and the great wind stirred by the linnorm's wings. The Red Dragon was far larger than the space where he had landed. And was having difficulty maintaining his balance. Precocious little Silverheels decided to push him off the tower.

  He sprang to the battlements again, began taunting the dragon. Ironclaw roared like a thunderstorm and loosed a tremendous lot of flame. Silverheels jumped, barely in time to make it back to the protection of the king's spell.

  Worried about Silverheels, Olav jumped up and started after the kitten, but he was forced to jump out of the way of a giant claw. He tripped, flung his arms out to catch himself. The iron sword flew through the air and struck the Red Dragon full point in the eye. With a great scream, the linnorm fell backward off the tower, his wings beating like the cymbals of a mighty army.

  Mystified, Olav collected the sword from where it had fallen after doing its deed, and went to peer over the ramparts. Faith and Silverheels joined him just in time to see the Red Dragon crash against the flagstones in the courtyard far below. "See," said the kitten. "I told you you could do it."

  A shadow grew around them, becoming larger and deeper. Looking up, Olav saw Hookfang diving toward them in a fury. They scurried for protection below the battlements.

  The White Dragon seemed about to repeat the mistake of the Red. It landed on the tower and immediately began stalking the three. Wishing to treat them cruelly for the slaying of the other, Hookfang withheld his fire.

  "Faith, Silverheels, get behind me," Olav ordered as he hefted the sword and braced himself for battle. The kitten leapt to the ramparts, then bounced onto the pony's back. She got behind Olav, watching over his shoulder. The fisherman retreated as the dragon stalked closer.

  Round and round the tower they went, the dragon advancing, Olav retreating, time and again thrusting the tip of his blade at a small red heart on the monster's ivory chest.

  "Oh, look!" said Silverheels. "The Red Dragon's still alive." Olav glanced over the ramparts. Ironclaw was moving his wings feebly in the courtyard, twitching his armored tail, and spewing out gouts of flame.

  "But dying," said Olav. "He won't live much longer."

  At his words, the White Dragon made a thunderous, angry sound with his wings, and dove straight at Olav. Faith squealed with fright and ran. Silverheels leapt from her back to the battlements and started taunting the dragon. That kitten was either fearless or a fool. And what is it they say of the young?

  Olav retreated as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Faith was so frightened that she ran completely around the turret and butted into Hookfang's tail before she realized what she was doing. The dragon turned to snap at her.

  "Whee!" Silverheels screamed. "The Red Dragon's dead!" He had been looking down into the courtyard and saw it happen. Then, with a grown-tom shriek, he leaped to the top of Hookfang's head. He tried to sink his little claws into the tremendous, fiery eyes, to blind the dragon so it could not see Faith. The eyes closed in self-defense and the linnorm began shaking, trying to shed the little nuisance.

  Something happened. Time seemed to stop. Olav, who had been moving in with the sword, eyes on the little red heart, stopped moving. Faith stopped trying to get her legs untangled. Silverheels stopped clawing at the dragon's eyes. Hookfang moved only far enough to look down into the courtyard. A black mist had formed there, concealing the body of the Red Dragon. A soft, high-pitched keening sound came from the monster's throat. Then Olav, Faith, and Silverheels found themselves in the heart of a dense black cloud. They could see nothing.

  A gust of wind blew the cloud away. Silverheels tried to move—and found his claws were caught in hair. And Olav had the funniest look on his face. The kitten looked down. Why, where was the dragon? He was perched atop a tall, beautiful, dark-haired woman in white, with tears like crystals sparkling in the corners of her eyes.

  Olav looked at the tiny red heart over the woman's left breast. "Oh!" he said. "Well!" Leaning over the battlements, he saw a man in red lying on the flagstones. A mystery of Elfland.

  "Why," said the voice of the Elfking, "you've caught the daughter of my arch-enemy. They took the forms of dragons so they could attack me."

  "Oh," was all that Olav could say. He was watching the beautiful woman as she gently pulled Silverheels out of her hair, held his soft fur against her tear-streaked cheek. Silverheels winked at him.

  "Well," said the king, "this calls for a feast, don't you think?" He started into the tower.

  "Yes!" cried Silverheels. "A whole quart of cream! I'm a hero!"

  "You're a naughty kitten," said Faith. "And if you had a place for it, I'd ask Olav to spank you."

  "He was very brave," said the girl, in a voice as soft and beautiful as the breeze in the pines above Lake Totak.

  "He was bad," said Olav, agreeing with Faith.

  "Oh, no," she said with a pale smile. "He was a little soldier. A pity he was so brave on the side of evil."

  "Evil?" asked all three.

  "Yes." She brushed a tear away. "But I forget that you're mortals. Don't they tell stories about the huldre in the world of men?"

  "Why, so they do," said Olav. He'd heard them all his life. And never a one was good. "Have we been tricked?" he asked. "Why were you fighting?"

  "This was our castle, and these were our lands, before the huldre put spells on us and drove us into the land beyond the sunset."

  "He said he was unable to put spells on you . . . ."

  "Only in our dragon form, where we were invulnerable to everything but mortal-wielded iron."

  "I'm sorry," said Olav.

  "And me," said Silverheels. "I made Olav do it."

  "I might think of a place to spank you yet," Faith told him. She was remembering a pink bow she would probably never see.

  "You are all forgiven," said the girl. "You didn't know."

  "What will you do now?" Olav asked. He was sad because of what he had done.

  "That will be up to the huldre-king, won't it?" she said. "They say he has many wicked instruments in his dungeons."

  There was a tremendous festival that evening. The huldre came from miles around, to celebrate the victory. The party went on for hours and hours, for where the sun never set
s the people need not hurry home. Olav drank the best ale of his experience but his thoughts were elsewhere. Faith was tempted with just oodles of the finest clover. Silverheels lapped cream until he was round as a ball. But he did not talk much, which was unusual. He always had something to say about everything.

  At last, the great party came to an end. "What can I do to repay your kindness to my people?" the king asked. "Would you like a bucket of gold or a handful of rubies?"

  Olav shook his head sadly. "No, no wealth. Maybe my salt, a ribbon for Faith, and a hand along the path home. I need nothing else. I have Faith, and Silverheels, and my nets and traps, and what more could a man desire?"

  Silverheels had been whispering in Faith's ear. And she had been nodding her head sagely, with female wisdom. Said Silverheels, "Well, I have a request."

  "Behave yourself!" said Olav.

  "I want the girl," said Silverheels. "I claim her!" Well, how bold can one kitten be?

  The king thought for a moment? "Why not? She'll be less of a threat in the world of men. She's yours."

  "And I have a request," said Faith, and she whispered in the king's ear.

  He chuckled, gave Olav a sly look. "Yes, I think that's perfect. He did kill her father. It would fill the spirit of the old laws. Your request, too, shall be granted."

  Olav was mystified. He looked at Faith, but she ignored him. So. She had a secret. And would not tell him till she was ready.

  "Come," said the king. "We'll find the girl, then show you home." And, shortly, they were under the mountain once more, going past the mines of dwarves and the place where trolls dwelt. The king opened the door in the boulder with his staff. He pointed to the place where he had met them. "There," he said. "I think we all have what we want. Farewell." And with that the king went back into the mountain. The door in the boulder closed as if it had never been.

  Olav looked around, happy to be in his own land. He had always loved it, but now it was even better. He looked at Silverheels, thinking of punishments. The kitten was grinning. Why, so was Faith. And the girl, whose name he had discovered to be Amethyst, why, even she wore a tiny smile. Mysteriouser and mysteriouser.

  The mystery was resolved when they came to the edge of the lake. At Faith's bidding, Olav looked down into the water—and saw a stranger's face. No, not a stranger's. His own, but forgotten, it had been so long ago. He was young, young as the girl. And his spirits were high, as they had not been for decades.

  "Even the huldre," as she took his hand in hers, "can show an occasional kindness."

  "Well!" said Olav. "Well! What do you think of that?"

  "I think we ought to go home," said Silverheels. "I'm hungry."

  "And the fish in my panniers are starting to smell," said Faith. "I want to smell nice when we see the priest."

  "Yes, well, home," said Olav.

  So they went to their little home above Lake Totak, unloaded the panniers, and went back to doing things as they had always been done, except that Olav and Amethyst went to see the priest. And, though she promised the priest she would forget all her witchcraft, well, there always seemed to be lots of ribbons for Faith, and Silverheels stayed fat on mysterious bowls of cream.

  Oh, Silverheels never did get the punishment he deserved. That precocious kitten grew into one of the most mischievous and rascally toms ever to plague Rauland.

  Hell's Forge

  The third Vengeful Dragon story, published here for the first time.

  I

  A cold steel sea rolled in, poised, hurled itself against lead-colored rocks, exploded in a wall of silver froth, geysered toward a pewter sky. Chill mists raced inland, dampening ruins. A bitter wind tumbled ragged leaves around fallen buildings, sometimes humming like a giant unable to carry a tune. Here, there, scattering the dust of ages, it uncovered a fragment of mirror. Such shards freckled the dead city with points of light. At the heart of the ruin it gnawed a mound of sand supporting a heap of fallen masonry. In time, that heap collapsed.

  Gray shadows moved through the gray city, beside the gray sea, under the cold gray sky. Where a fragment of mirror flickered, shadows gathered. Where the mound had fallen the revealed glass stood like a window into which shadows peered at another world.

  The mirror reflected a city full of intercourse and commerce. The people there were not human. Their skins were a sallow, fish-belly color, tinged with olive-green. Their heads were vaguely snakelike.

  The sun continued its westward course. Gray deepened into darkness.

  The cold black sea rolled in, poised, hurled itself against rock like polished jet, exploded in a wall of luminescent froth, geysered toward the ink dark sky. The bitter wind scattered the mist, now so cold it formed films of ice. Mirror fragments glowed more dully. Behind the groan and hum of the wind a sound rose like that of a bell ringing. No, like a hammer striking an anvil, slowly, steadily, louder and louder.

  II

  A bell rang.

  How long? Days? Half of eternity? Light and darkness alternated, approximating days. I did not keep track. I stood on the ship's poop, leaning on my bow, an everlasting statue. Vengeful Dragon drifted in lazy circles inside a changeless dome of fog.

  The bell rang again.

  Fifty-eight stone-still bodies lay scattered across the decks of the weathered caravel. She had been here long enough for moss and seaweed to cover her sides, climb her lines, and blanket the obsidian sea surrounding her.

  Why was I noticing? I should be in mental limbo, staring fixedly across Dragon's decks at nothing. Time should have no meaning. We were immune. We had paid time's price already, condemned by savage gods.

  A bell rang once more, faintly and far away.

  Something had changed. Something had wakened me. Something had shaken the hourglass and gotten the sands moving. Ah, no. Not again.

  A clump of darkness lurked by the mainmast, no fatter than two fists held together. It had been there for as long as I could remember. And Vengeful Dragon was an old, old evil, having sailed the western sea, pirating, captained by mad Colgrave, for how long? Centuries, possibly. Till a great sorcerer banished us to this limbo in mist.

  One last featherweight hint of the song of a bell.

  Once, something recalled us. Rather than be used, we destroyed it. We lost crew, including the grand old madman himself. Colgrave passed command to me. I took Dragon to sea . . . . And . . . . Lightning struck. And we came back here. To the mist.

  In those days I thought that lump of shadow served the creature who called us up. But that monster was extinct. And the shadow remained.

  Now it spun like a pinwheel, tossing off dark sparks. Its center opened. Nothing shown through. Neither darkness nor light, color nor its absence. Nothing. The opening grew.

  Nothing hung, sensed more than seen. Fear rattled me. I couldn't move, not so much as an eye.

  Could they not let us be? Could they not learn? The world was a better place with us imprisoned. We were great devils, so wicked that the gods themselves had bound us to this ship for all time, in a vain pursuit of redemption.

  Dragon shuddered. She rocked. Her bows turned. She was trying to get under way, I shrieked in the asylum of my mind. She shuddered again, trying to break the grip of motionless water thicker than cold molasses. A violent surge toppled me.

  III

  I could hear. I did not like what I heard. Boots with iron heels, down on the main deck. I heard them click on hard planking. My crew knew better than to scar the decks.

  How did somebody get aboard? We were far from the world, halfway between Heaven and Hell.

  A breeze fluttered the sails. Not good. Dragon could tear herself apart if she hit winds without a crew to tend her.

  Crew. I assumed the men were as aware as I. Which meant they saw what was afoot down there. What did they feel? Fear? Hope? Rage? Most likely that. Dragon was always moved by rage and hatred. We were filled with those emotions in life.

  I strained with all my will, trying to move. Nothing happe
ned. Rage shook me. I hated the cloud that had quickened me, wanted to destroy the thing that had come onto my ship without my invitation.

  A foot settled on my shoulder, pushed. Sprawled me on my belly. Someone took my bow. I raged. My bow meant everything. She was heart and soul of me, was me . . . . Hands dipped under my armpits, hoisted me, carried me to the rail, dumped me against it, upright.

  Now I could see.

  This sorcerer was less human than the last. It looked like a man in a fake fish skin, baggy and ill-tailored, wearing a snake's head mask.

  Nothing like this existed in my world. Not even in myth or legend.

  The wind in the rigging hummed. The sails snapped angrily. We might lose them. They had been up however long we'd been imprisoned in the fog. Dragon's bows began to rise and fall. She was entering a living sea. I became queasy. I am one of those sailors who never gets used to the roll of the deep.

  The mist thinned. I could do nothing but stare ahead. Fish moved in and out of sight as he took weapons from the men. A sudden, sharp pain suggested his motive. We were recovering.

  The fool! All sorcerers are fools. Why would he feel secure if he took our weapons? This is Vengeful D. He must not have done his research.

  Right then I would have tortured him cheerfully, just to hear him scream. I wanted somebody to hurt more than I did.

  The sky ahead showed no hint of color. I caught glimpses of the water. The seas were running tall enough to wear white feathers in their hair. They were gray and cold. The wind, too, was chilly. I had that much sensation. I began to shiver. Straining, I forced my eyes shut. I opened them again, then concentrated on wiggling my fingers.