The sword howled with the fury of its checked fire as Aram stumbled beneath the arch of the massive rear leg of the dragon and then ran stumbling toward the front of the monster, along the scaly length of its enormous body. On and on across the ancient stonework toward the front of the beast, Aram ran, with his mind and thoughts reeling, struggling to endure both the maelstrom of the dragon’s oppressive presence and the howling of the blade.
The Sword of Heaven shrieked its need for release. The dragon’s great head lifted and started to turn toward him, apparently attracted by the sound of the sword’s distress.
Aram was still too far back along the body. A sword-thrust here would undoubtedly wound the beast but might not be fatal. He needed to get closer to the head.
The organ or interior chamber that had destroyed the other beast’s body was forward, just behind the front shoulders. He was yet thirty yards or more away.
The head swung further.
No, no, he yelled silently at the monster; stay focused on the city.
The dragon heaved its massive body up on to its clawed legs as it continued to turn toward him, revealing a space between it and the pavement of the porch. Something black flashed past Aram and ran underneath the dragon’s belly toward its other side.
Durlrang.
No, Durlrang! – run! – get off the porch!
Aram kept stumbling toward the forelegs of the beast, desperately trying to outrun the inquisitive turning of the great horned head. Then, just before the dragon’s head swiveled fully around, it stopped, hesitated, and then moved back to the right in response to something happening on that side.
From beyond the vast bulk of the great body, there erupted a commotion. Barely heard among the riotous cacophony of sound created by the howling of the sword and the hum of the dragon’s wings, Durlrang gave out a fierce, low growl that was choked off as his teeth sank into something.
Upon the instant, the old wolf made another sound.
An odd, grunting noise.
And then he was silent.
But the dragon had turned its massive head away from Aram and the sword for just a moment and toward its other side. And in that moment, Aram was there.
“Run, Durlrang! Now!” He yelled with both his voice and his mind.
He thrust the sword deep into the scaly side of the beast and released its fire. The sword sank easily into the alien flesh as Aram kept stumbling onward, holding the hilt with both his gauntleted hands as the blade and its flame tore through the monster.
The dragon gave vent to a hideous exhalation of agony.
Then it convulsed.
Mighty tremors vibrated through its great length.
An instant later, there was a terrific detonation that blew Aram sideways and knocked him completely off his feet. Heat and flame exploded out from the creature’s body.
Aram rolled over and over. Time after time, with each revolution of his body, the sword bit deep into the stone of the great porch. As he tumbled away, fighting against the loss of consciousness, Aram pulled it free again and again and finally held it overhead with shaking arms as he came to rest on his back. The sun exerted its normal pull on the blade, and in his weakened condition it was as if he struggled with a stronger man for possession. Flame and smoke rolled over him, sizzling and searing. His clothing caught fire and burned away, but the armor held. Then there came another explosion, and the smoke and flame near him were blown away, leaving only the loud crackling sound of flesh and bone burning, coming from the direction of the dragon.
Shaken and trembling, Aram got to his hands and knees, fighting the pull of the sun to keep the blade pointed toward the beast.
The dragon was dead, its massive body ablaze along much of its length. The head was down, the enormous almond-shaped eyes growing dull and unfocused even as Aram watched. There was no movement; even the great long tail lay still. Once he was convinced of its death, he yanked off the hood and vomited out what little bile was left in his stomach.
After he’d wretched himself dry, he rested on his hands and knees, sucking in deep, shuddering breaths. Then, from somewhere to his left, from inside the city, other sounds impinged upon his tenuous consciousness; harsh yelps and vicious growls. Despite the fact that his thoughts were still confused and uncertain from the encounter with the dragon, Aram recognized what he heard – the fighting of wolves.
Ka’en.
Struggling to his feet, Aram turned and stumbled for the great hall, keeping the sword unsheathed.
He ran haltingly through the first set of arches and then through the second and ran headlong into chaos. Battles raged all around him, wolf against wolf, and strangely, bear against wolf. At the far side of the hall, near the doorway that led into the mountain, Leorg, Shingka and a small band of the valley wolves had formed a semi-circle, battered and bloody, where they were joined by Borlus and two members of his family. Facing them were twice as many wolves of unknown origin.
Wounded and dying wolves lay everywhere, in and among the individual battles that went on throughout the hall. Blood pooled in large amounts, blackened on the floor, and became gore.
Aram took in the situation in a moment. Wolves loyal to Manon had invaded with the dragons. Because of their sturdier stature and longer fur, these strange wolves were not difficult to tell from Leorg’s people. Laying about him with the sword, Aram entered the fray, drawing the surprised attention of the unknown wolves upon him and away from his friends. The Sword of Heaven made quick work of all that assaulted him. Within minutes the battle was ended.
Finding their enemies vanquished Leorg and Shingka and the rest of the surviving wolves of the valley collapsed from their wounds and exhaustion, bleeding from many gashes and bites. But Aram had no time to lend them aid or see to their injuries.
“Ka’en.” He demanded. “Where is Ka’en?”
Leorg wearily turned his head and looked toward the entrance to the underground passages.
“She’s gone into the darkness of the mountain with Gorfang,” he said. “Kolgar and two of his kin followed.”
So, it was the wolves of Vallenvale that had joined with the dragons.
Fear for Ka’en giving him strength, Aram sprinted for the doorway leading into the depths of the mountain. Grabbing the torch that always hung there, he touched the tip of it with the sword, causing it to blaze up. Holding the sword in front of him and the torch high, he went into the darkness.
Calling softly, he turned his head one way and then the other and listened into the darkness, but there was only silence. Uncertain of which way to go, he lowered the flame and studied the floor. There was no blood trail but there were fresh paw prints in the dust. Among these, another set of prints could occasionally be seen; the small, narrow tracks of a woman’s bare feet. He followed these beyond the first connecting passageway, and then the second. The prints by-passed the third as well but turned into the forth.
Before he got fifty feet along the passage he saw the carnage that lay in front of a dark doorway further along and his heart constricted.
“Ka’en,” he called. And then again, urgently. “Ka’en!”
Sick with dread at what the scene before him had yet to reveal, he hastened forward.
“Ka’en!”
“Aram? Aram – is that you?” Her soft voice sounded from the depths of the room, from the blackness beyond the dead wolves. Shoving them rudely aside, his torch fell upon Gorfang’s body. Ka’en was bending over the wolf. As she looked up at Aram, blinking against the sudden light, her eyes were bright with moisture.
The sudden surge of relief at seeing her alive and apparently unharmed was too much for him. He went to his knees, dropping the torch, which crashed onto the stone, shattering the base of the handle. It toppled sideways onto the floor where it flickered and nearly went out.
Ka’en quickly grabbed it and came to kneel by him, grasping his head with her free hand and holding him to her breast.
He held the sword away with one hand
and wrapped his other arm around her, burying his face in the sweet scent of her. Thank you, Dear Maker. He breathed his gratitude silently, over and over. Finally, feeling strength return, he leaned back and looked at her face in the flickering light of the torch.
“Ka’en – my love –“ But finding her alive after a terrible hour in which he had feared her dead choked off his ability to speak. He went mute, trembling, and crushed her to him once more.
She was shaking, as if from extreme cold.
“Oh, Aram – I thought I would never see you again.”
“I know.” He held her silently while his pounding heart sought equilibrium and then he leaned slightly away and peered into her eyes. “Are you alright – you’re not hurt?”
She shook her head. “I’m not hurt.”
Then she looked down at the wolf lying prone in the darkness. “But Gorfang is injured badly. He fought to protect me, Aram. Help me with him – please.”
Without releasing her, Aram bent his head and examined the wolf. “He’s not –?”
“No – he lives, but barely.”
“I’ll take him to the hall.” Then, ignoring her concern for the wolf for another moment, Aram sheathed the sword, wrapped both arms about her and held her tight. Tears erupted from his eyes at the feel of her soft warmth.
“Thank the Maker,” he said.
Releasing her reluctantly, he looked back down at Gorfang. The ancient wolf was lying on his side with his eyes closed. His intestines extruded outside his body in two places and he was covered in blood and gore over his whole head and front shoulders. Much of that dried blood and gore though, Aram surmised, was not his but that of his enemies. Still, he’d lost far too much of his own. Taking the torch from Ka’en, he examined Gorfang carefully yet quickly and then handed it back. Blinking the last of the moisture from his eyes, he looked at her again, closely. Her lovely eyes were wide and brightened with the shock and horror of the last hour.
“You’re sure that you’re alright?”
“Yes, my love.” But then as he knelt to pick up Gorfang, she touched his sleeve and whispered low and urgent. “We should wait here, Aram. Gorfang said that there were two terrible things in the valley. They must not be here now, or you could not have entered the city; but he was certain they would return.”
Aram shook his head as he stood with Gorfang cradled in his arms. “They’re both dead. I killed them – you needn’t worry any longer. Get in front of me and hold the torch high so I can see to get him back to the hall.”
Ka’en stared at him with astonished eyes for a long moment when he’d related this heretofore unknown fate of the terrible things, and it was only then that she noticed the charred bits of his cloak and trousers that clung here and there to his golden armor. She opened her mouth to question him further but he shook his head. Stifling her amazement and her questions, she stepped around and over the dead bodies of Kolgar and his companions and led him out and back along the dark passage.
The sun was fully in the sky when they returned to the hall and from the openings high above daylight streamed in. Aram looked around for a clear spot to place Gorfang and then turned to Ka’en, who had frozen and was gazing about her in horror at the carnage in the hall. “Ka’en! Get a blanket from that room over there where Nikolus and Timmon stayed while they were here. Lay it down and spread it out so that we can protect his insides from the floor.”
Wrenching her gaze away from the terrible sights that surrounded her, she focused for a moment on Aram’s face, looked down at Gorfang in his arms and then dashed away to do his bidding.
When the blanket was spread out with Gorfang upon it, and the rest of the blankets brought out for the other injured wolves, he looked into her eyes, “Take care of Gorfang and check on the others. Watch him, keep him warm. I have medicines in the infirmary – I’ll be back.”
He ran quickly up through the city to the infirmary, where he kept a stockpile of herbs and medicinal plants. Filling his pockets and any containers he could find, and gathering up all the available needles and sutures, he hurried back to the hall. With Ka’en’s help, he gently moved Gorfang’s entrails back inside his body and repositioned them as best he could. Then he carefully sewed the wounds closed. Convinced that they could do no more for Gorfang, they turned to the others. Every one of Leorg’s people was injured. Forgetting everything else, Aram and Ka’en became fully focused on treating their injured friends.
For the next two hours, they worked like fiends, dressing wounds, stitching gashes, and staunching the loss of blood. They saved Gorfang’s life, at least for the moment, along with that of Leorg and Shingka, both of whom had suffered numerous – and in Shingka’s case, serious – injuries. They saved most, but there was also unavoidable tragedy. Despite their best combined efforts, Borlus and Hilla’s daughter, Simma, died of her wounds.
After it became obvious that nothing further could be done for the young bear, Aram lifted his head and met Borlus’ gaze. Moisture seeped into the corners of his eyes as he looked into the tiny eyes of the bear.
“I’m so sorry, my old friend – I’m so sorry.” He shook his head in grief. “I should have been here. Forgive me, if you can.”
Borlus gazed at him. “Forgive you, my lord?”
“Please, if you can,” Aram said. Remorse boiled up inside him. “Because I was not here when you and your family needed me.”
Borlus looked at him in silence for a long moment. “You have many responsibilities, my lord. You cannot be everywhere at one time, attending to every danger.” He looked down at the lifeless body of his daughter. “She is in a better place, now, with the Maker. She fought bravely, as did all.” After gazing down upon her for a time, he looked back up at Aram. “Do not blame yourself, Aram the Mighty, my friend, for I do not.”
Aram reached out and laid a hand on the bear’s shoulder. “Still,” he repeated, “I wish I had been here. I am sorry.”
Another hour passed while they continued to see to the wounded, administering to their needs, including giving water and sustenance to those who were able to partake.
Then, suddenly, Aram stood, and looked around sharply, gazing into every corner of the hall.
Ka’en was examining Gorfang’s stitches. Startled by his abrupt manner, she looked up at him, frowning. “What is the matter, my love?”
Aram glanced down at her, his eyes wide and filled with concern, and then he pivoted to stare toward the archways at the front of the hall.
“Where is Durlrang?”
Her frown deepened. “Wasn’t he with you?”
“Yes,” Aram affirmed. The concern in his eyes turned to dread and entered his voice. “But I haven’t seen him since I came inside.”
Abruptly, he remembered the events of the moments immediately preceding the detonation of the dragon’s body. Without speaking again to Ka’en, he hastened outside onto the great porch. The body of the dragon was still smoldering, sending billows of gray-black smoke into the sky. Because of the position of the massive body and the damage done to the front of the city by the great beast’s claws, Aram was obliged to go into the interior passages of the city and make his way to the north before he found egress out onto the porch on the side of the dragon where Durlrang had gone.
Coming out into the bright sunlight, he stopped dead in his tracks.
His heart lurched in his chest and then plunged into despair.
The dragon’s body was splayed out, with the legs extended at some distance from the smoldering hulk. Caught in the claws of the finger-like appendages at the right-front of the beast was the charred body of a black wolf.
Durlrang.
Trembling, feeling as if his muscle and bone would fail him, Aram moved slowly toward the end of the monster’s limb.
The old wolf, in an apparent effort to divert the dragon’s attention from Aram’s assault on its other side, had sunk his teeth into one of the beast’s fleshy digits. In response, the dragon had instinctively closed its clawed f
ist. One of the huge talons had pierced Durlrang’s body completely through, immediately behind his front shoulders.
The eyes of the ancient wolf were still open, but whatever they looked upon, it was not in the world of the living.
Aram sank to his knees.
Despair welled, and pooled, and blackened, and filled the deep places of his heart.
One of his oldest friends upon the earth was dead.
The grandson of Urfang the First, and the last of his generation, was no more.
For a long time, Aram knelt upon the hard stone, gazing at the lifeless body of his friend, regret and sorrow overwhelming him, driving his thoughts into dark places of remorse. What could he have done differently? How could he have prevented this? Try as he would, he could not find coherency among the jumble of his darkened thoughts. On this terrible day tragedy seemed to compound tragedy.
Once more, the accusatory words of Flinneran came back to him, piercing him like the fangs of a serpent – A lot of people die near you.
Gradually he became aware of someone behind him. Thinking it was Ka’en, he spoke in bitterness, “You should probably get far away from me. It seems all I can do is bring death and sorrow to those I love.”
But it was not Ka’en.
“What has happened, my lord?” Asked Leorg.
Aram hung his head without looking back. “He tried to divert the dragon’s attention so that I could slay it.” He forced himself to look up at Durlrang’s body. “He died doing so.”
“But, my lord – he was successful, was he not?” Leorg asked quietly.
“Yes,” Aram answered, too harshly. “He still died.”
“But he turned the dragon away from your attack?”
Without speaking, Aram nodded.
After a long silence, Leorg stated softly. “My uncle will have died content then, my lord, with his heart full.”
Kelven's Riddle Book Four Page 55