Dragondoom

CHAPTER 14

Midyear, 3E1601

[Last Year]

They rode into the sheer-walled valley at dawn, Elgo and his Warband. And even though it was Year’s Long Day, still the Vanadurin fared in deep shadows, for the new Sun was on the east flank of the Rigga Mountains, while the Harlingar were on the west. Steadily they forged inward, passing along the ruins of an ancient tradeway, portions of it dimly visible within the darkness, though most of the Dwarven-cut stones were sunk ’neath the soil. Four wains trundled along this remnant of an earlier age, the waggons drawn by swift tarpan ponies and escorted by the Harlingar; without the cargo they bore, Elgo’s plan would come to nought.

Inward they rode, and vaguely before them could be seen the steeps of the Rigga, massifs and pitches and soaring abutments ramping upward, stone upon stone rising unto the alpenglow, the innumerable shadows mustered unto the palisades slowly disbanding before the growing light of the dim early morn; soon most of the darkness would be gone, except for those crafty shadows that would slip behind the crags, warily circling, ever keeping their own rock between them and the moving Sun.

Eastward bore the Vanadurin, the floor of the valley curving this way and that, a rushing stream glimmering along the ravine to their right, its waters hastening o’er rounded stones. Alongside this waterway wended the roadbed followed by the Harlingar, the sounds of hooves and waggon wheels mingling with the plash. And as they rode inward the canyon narrowed, till it was no more than fifty paces wide.

Into this deep darkling slot went the Warband, to come upon a high stone wall down within the crevasse, crenelated battlements spanning the width of the gorge, a crafted bulwark of carven rock, an ancient Dwarven defense ’gainst invaders. Through the wall was an opening, under a barbican, and the course they followed fared within upon a stonework way, the stream issuing forth from beneath the road, flowing through a culvert barred by a rusted grille. The fore portcullis was raised, its iron-spiked teeth also stained with rust.

Along this way and into this passage fared the Vanadurin, following the twisting route inside, chattering echoes of iron-shod hooves and iron-rimmed waggon wheels accompanying them. Overhead in the roofway of the passage could be seen machicolations, called murder holes by some, for through them would fly arrows and bolts and scalding liquids to rain down upon invaders trapped within. But not on this day at this place would death hurl from above, for these walls were now deserted, and had been so for more than a millennium. And beneath the unguarded bulwark passed the Harlingar, to find the rear portcullis also raised by those who had fled before.

Through the wall and out the far side went Elgo and his Men, and now the ravine began to widen, belling outward, receding to left and right, hemmed in by perpendicular stone rising high above, though still the floor wended this way and that, the brook now leftward of the roadway. Easterly they fared, and before them loomed the sheer face of the Rigga Mountains, the dark rock in its massiveness seeming close enough to touch.

Now the Warband came to the very head of the valley, chary eyes seeking to see what dangers might therein be. Before them lay a wide courtyard fetching up against the shadowed flank of the rising mountain. To their left the gurging rill issued forth from beneath the sheer rock, flowing out through a low, barred stonework opening, becoming the swift-running stream that dashed down the length of the vale. But this rushing bourn did not hold their gaze, for yawning before them at last stood the ebon gape of the west door into Blackstone, the great iron gates, torn from their hinges, lying rusty upon the dark granite forecourt, where Sleeth had hurled them down some sixteen hundred years agone. Cautiously they stepped their steeds forward, iron-shod hooves ringing on stone, iron-rimmed wheels grinding after, past a great stone pedestal in courtyard center with carven steps winding up and around. Harlingar eyes swept side to side, seeing nought but dead stone, their gazes ever returning unto the forbidding blackness of this hole before them. Ancient Vanadurin legend told of the haunted Realm of the Underworld, where heroes come to ruin. And always in these hearthtales, the way to disaster led through cracks and splits and holes in the ground, through carven cavern as well as unworked cave. Ever would the heroes ignore the warnings of loved ones, ever would they disregard the portents of the gods, and ever would they enter through these fissures in the earth, never to escape the dreadful woe awaiting within. And now Elgo’s Warband stepped toward a great black hole boring into the earth, grim folklore skittering through their minds, hackles rising on their napes at sight of this dark pit. Yet the Vanadurin, brave warriors of the grassy plains and open skies, rode inward toward their unknown destinies, just as did the paladins in those dire legends of old.

Riding into the foregate courtyard, the Warband halted, Elgo dismounting, hand signalling the others to do likewise. Before them the face of the mountain rose sheer unto the sky, the portal carved in a great massif. And as the sky lightened and day filtered down into the deep vale, they could see where the Dwarvenholt got its name, for the stone was ebon black, a darkling rock that sucked at the light.

Near the door lay a great ballista, partly assembled, its metal fallen into rust, the wood grey and weak, splintered by weather, pitted by age. Nearby lay long iron shafts, quarrels, also rusted nigh unto total ruin, except for the crafted points, made of some silvery alloy, traces of a dark grume within the flutes.

Too, there lay the arms and armor of Dwarven warriors-axes, crossbows, chain, plate-corroded beyond redemption. And the armor held other remains: the shattered skulls and broken bones of those long dead, and bits of tattered cloth and leather.

“Ruric,” Elgo said softly, “methinks we look upon evidence of a Dwarven party that sought to evict a Drake ages past. Tell the Men not to touch the smůt upon yon shaft points; for though legend has it that Dragon’s blood destroys any poison, still would the Dwarves test that legend, and I deem this dark smearing to have been a deadly blending of theirs, and may be deadly still.” Elgo’s eyes scanned the scene. “From all indications, Sleeth came upon them ere they were ready, but ai-oi! see the size of that bow. As we have spoken ere now, a band would need to use a shaft-caster to have a chance of dealing a Drake a deathblow by these means. Even so, should they miss, all would be lost, for there would not be enough time to reload ere the creature would be upon them. Or should they hit and not penetrate Dragonhide, then all is lost as well. Or should they penetrate and merely wound. . well, it matters not, for the signs show that this Dwarven band was unprepared when they came to ruin”-Elgo glanced at the lightening sky-“a fate we must avoid. Let us hurry, for we have much to do in the day that is left.”

As Ruric oversaw the unlading of the waggons, Elgo and Reynor made their way up two foregate steps and across a wide flat past the torn-down portals and into the arch of the great west gateway. Cautiously they peered into the dark environs before them, seeing a great hallway receding beyond sight, fading into the black bowels of this ebon hole carved into the earth. To right and left along the walls they could vaguely see great buttresses rising to support an unseen roof in the darkness above.

“Look!” exclaimed Reynor, pointing to the floor.

There upon the stone was a wide path, dimly shining, stained with ruddy grume, an ancient well-worn track of a great beast slithering in and out of its lair, belly scales polishing the floor beneath a massive bulk, grinding the dripping blood of a carried victim into the black rock. A faint smell drifted upon the air: reptilian, viperous.

“Lantern,” hissed Elgo, kneeling to look. “Get me a lantern.”

No sooner it seemed were the words out of the Prince’s mouth than Reynor was back, a lit lantern in his hands. Moving the light side to side over the track, Elgo’s excitement grew. He stepped down its length some distance, Reynor in his wake, the lantern casting swaying shadows into the dark surround. “This will lead exactly where we wish to go,” hissed Elgo, “right to the lair of the beast.”

Swiftly they returned to the Warband, now bearing the long rolls of sailcloth unto the gateway, hauling great lengths of rope as well. Other lanterns were lit, and the portal examined. Just as expected, to either side on left and right, ladders mounted up into the shadows, rungs leading up to the o’erhead walkways behind arrow slits carved in the stone above the gate.

Up these ways swarmed Vanadurin, bearing lanterns and ropes and block and tackle brought here for the work ahead, while below others rolled out canvas and fitted their palms with leather pads. Laying the cloth upon the stone floor in overlapping panels, awls were put into play; holes were punched and great curved needles drew rawhide thongs through the fabric, stitching the square panes together; and as the stitching went forward, dollops of pitch were dropped in to fill the laced holes behind. Swiftly they worked and quietly, while the day outside grew brighter, the Sun striding up the sky.

To one side a group of ten poured water into buckets of powdered soil, borne all the way from Jord, kneading the mix into a thick clay. In many ways, theirs was the most critical of tasks.

Still others fitted together a long heavy pole made of sections of ashwood lance shafts, each end slipped into a tight iron collar, a tube forged for just this need, and butted midway against another haft, to be held in place by a steel pin driven through drilled holes. Shaft, collar, shaft, collar. . the work went on, pins driven in, assembling the needed long pole, just as it had been assembled many times at the castle in practice for this quest. And as it had been planned back at the keep, in turn the assembled long pole was laced along what would become the top edge of the canvas work, each stitch double-tied, the holes filled in after with a drop of pitch.

It was late forenoon when they lashed ropes upon the finished canvas, now haling the lines up and threading them through the pulleys affixed to the stonework above. And slowly they drew the great cloth into place, the light within the west chamber gradually dimming as the fabric raised up to cover the portal, shutting out the sunlight.

“Seal it,” commanded Elgo. And Vanadurin stepped to the buckets of clay, reaching in and pulling out great handfuls, forming long thick ropy strands by rolling it upon the stone floor. These in turn were borne to the canvas and placed along its edge behind and pressed into both wall and cloth, sealing the canvas border around the gateway, Men climbing the ladders as needed, and dangling below the lower walkway above to finish the task.

It was early afternoon when this work was done, and Elgo called for the lanterns to be shuttered. Now the west hall plunged into darkness. And after a long while, a murmur of excitement growing as all eyes adjusted to the pitch black, “Hai, well done,” called Elgo, “for I can see nought. Now we go adragon hunting.”

The lamps were relit and Men girded themselves with arms, though if it came to a pitched battle with the Cold-drake, their weaponry would not suffice.

Ten shed their armor, Elgo among them. They were the fleetest of foot, and would be the ones to seek out Sleeth. Each tied a quilted cloth mask upon his face, covering mouth and nose, the screens sewn with powdered limestone and charcoal in between the layers; wetted, it was thought that this would afford some protection against the poisonous vapors of Sleeth’s deadly breath, though none knew for certain. And ere Reynor lashed on his mask he gave the others a rakish grin, and they smiled in return. And each took up a leather skin filled with a phosphorescent liquid, a thick slushy mix of water and a lichen that glowed in the dark.

“Well, Armsmaster”-Elgo’s voice was muffled by the cloth over mouth and nose-“when we are gone, set the Men in place and extinguish your lanterns, and, aye, don your masks, for soon I deem we’ll bring a Dragon your way.”

“Remember, my proud Prince,” advised Ruric, his voice husky with emotion, “look not into his eyes, for ’tis said that Dragons ha’e the power to beguile.” Ruric then fell silent, not trusting his voice to speak further, for his heart was pounding: his Lord strode into a danger untold. This was a gambling beyond reckoning, yet the plan was sound. Even so, Ruric sensed disaster, but spoke of it not, merely nodding, giving his Prince a salute instead.

Now Elgo turned unto the thirty remaining behind. “Hál Vanadurin,” he cried, his voice loud and echoing down the cavern, for there was no longer a reason to remain quiet. “May the smiling face of Fortune gaze upon us all.”

Hál Vanadurin! came the shouted return, and Elgo and nine others caught up their lanterns and set off along the Dragon track, following the scale-polished stone down into the depths, heading for Sleeth’s lair.

Down into Blackstone they went, down along a wide smoothed trace palely shining in the lantern light. Behind them glowed a set of phosphorescent arrows pointing back the way they had come, arrows drawn with slashing strokes by Elgo and these Men. Down through a labyrinthine maze of Dwarven tunnels they went, passages and chambers splitting off in all directions. Stairs wound upward to left and right, pitching downward as well. Holes gaped to either side, leading where, none could say. Great chambers they trekked through, passing out the far end. They took little time to examine the rooms they trod within, for little time they had. Yet some chambers they could tell at a glance what their purposes were, others they could not. A great kitchen lay along their path, along the Dragon trail, but it had fallen into ruin, tables smashed by Sleeth slithering along his route. To one side they passed a smithy, forges cold, anvils silent, hammers not aringing. Too, there came an armory, weapons in cold array, chain and plate waiting to be clad. Other chambers they traversed, ore rooms, stoneworks, and the like. Yet what they saw was but a minuscule portion of the whole. It was like trekking through a few streets and buildings of a vast darkened city, abandoned long ago. And a great dolor seemed to fill the air.

Yet the Vanadurin had little time to ponder this deep sadness, for it was a Dragon they sought, and their blood ran high. A mile or more they had followed the twisting polished trail, marking their path with green-glowing arrows, down corridors, ’round corners, ’cross chambers, along curves. And they knew they drew closer to their goal, for the air was now heavy with the scent of Cold-drake, the stench of a great serpent lying thickly in the air, a reek intermingled with the acrid fumes of some dire spume.

And finally they came into another great chamber, and in the center they could see the reflected glitter of something shiny.

But ere they could tell what it was, RRRAAWWWW! came a great roar, like massy brass slabs dragged one upon the other, so loud that it broke eardrums and sent the Men reeling hindward. And exploding off his bed of gold came Sleeth, a hideous monster of mammoth proportions, rushing forward with a speed that stunned his foe; and from his mouth shot a dark liquid, splashing on stone and Man alike, charring flesh and burning rock. Screaming in pain, Men fell unto the smoldering stone, and Sleeth fell upon them in fury for daring to invade his lair, his great claws slashing them asunder, bloody shreds flying through the air.

Acid struck Elgo upon the face, and he reeled back, shrieking in unbearable agony, his left eye sizzling in the dire liquid. And he fell to his knees before the onrushing Dragon, oblivious to the danger in his desperate anguish, frantically clawing at the smoldering mask and ripping it from his face. Yet strong hands lifted him up; ’twas young Reynor, come to the aid of his Prince, raising him up and dragging him backward into the passage, shouting, “Run, my Lord, run! The Drake is upon us!”

Stumbling down the hall they ran, Reynor pulling the half-blind Prince after, following a spectral trail of green-glowing arrows. Behind them came the screams of Men falling into death; behind them came the brazen roars of a mighty Dragon; behind them came the clash of adamantine claws scrabbling upon stone.

Through blazing agony Elgo heard Reynor’s voice: “He follows, my Lord! He follows!”

Elgo’s own voice jerked out between gasps: “Run on, Reynor, run on! Make certain the bastard is slain!” And he stumbled to a halt.

Reynor stopped too, and hindward, great hard talons sounded upon black rock. “I cannot leave you to him, my Prince,” came Reynor’s panting reply, the young Man urgently pulling upon Elgo’s arm. “The only way Sleeth will be killed is if you run with me, for though I may be slain, if need be I’ll lead him a merry chase down another passage so that you may escape. But, my Lord, if we are successful with your plan, then it is the Drake that will fall. By Adon, ’tis true!”

Naming Adon seemed to galvanize the Prince; resolution filled his being. Grinding his teeth against the blinding pain, his eye a fiery hole in his seared face, Elgo called upon his uttermost grit and this time truly ran.

Along the glowing trail of ghostly arrows they fled, twisting through the Dwarven tunnels, the tortuous route all that saved them from the furious pursuit. Swifter than a horse was Sleeth, sprinting over a short course; but the mazed path within the Dwarvenholt defied this speed, his bulk acting against him through the myriad turns. Even so, the Drake gained upon his running quarry, drawing ever closer to the fleeing pair whenever lengthy chambers were encountered, his enraged roars shattering down the halls upon their heels.

Now he verged upon them; they were nearly within his grasp. He would rend them with his claws rather than destroy them with his breath, for he wanted the satisfaction of feeling life leaving their sundered bodies, of death coming unto their dismembered corpses.

Just before him they fled into the pitch-black west hall, the great Cold-drake rushing behind, their flesh and bones but barely beyond his grasp.

Yet Sleeth’s Dragon eyes saw through darkness as if it were brightest day. And as he exploded into the west chamber, he saw other Men before him, their faces also shielded by strange masking, holding ropes within the blackness. And there was a covering, a cloth covering, over the gateway. Sleeth cast forth his senses into the vale beyond to find that the Sun still rode the sky-

“Now!” cried Ruric. “By Adon send the monster to Hèl!”

Chnk! Up above on the overhead walkway an axe bit into a chopping block, sheering the supporting rope in twain. And down on the floor thirty Men hauled hard upon the lines, fifteen to either side, ripping the canvas away from the wall, the sealing clay unable to hold the cloth against the heaving pull.

And sunlight poured into the chamber, striking Sleeth in full, the great Drake unable to halt his forward rush and turn and flee into the surrounding dark ere the bright rays fell upon him.

With an agonized roar he crashed skidding unto the stone, dying even as he struck it. For Sleeth was a Cold-drake and suffered the Ban. And now these Harlingar had destroyed the mighty Dragon, tricking him into the daylight where he was whelmed by the hand of Adon.

And even as Elgo and Reynor fled before the crashed-down sliding monster, the twain blinded by the sudden dazzling radiance pouring in, Sleeth died, the burning fire deep within his glitterbright eyes quenched forever, the Drake’s last vision that of his killers: puny Men running in fear.