Dragondoom

CHAPTER 16

Early Summer, 3E1601

[Last Year]

Ruric, Reynor, and Pwyl-the senior of the two healers in the Warband-led Elgo out across the courtyard, the Prince in such agony that his breath came in moaning gasps between clenched teeth. From forehead to cheek, the left side of his face was nought but a fiery wound, his eye a burning hole in his face.

They took him to the crystalline stream gurging below the wall. “My Lord,” bade Pwyl, “lie on your stomach here at stream’s edge. Take a deep breath and hold your face in the clear water for as long as you can bear; the dregs of the Dragon spume must be washed away. Force open your left eye-use your fingers if you must-for the orb and lid must be washed clean; blink if you can, else let the waters flow o’er open eye.”

Belly-down, Elgo took in a great gasp of air and plunged his head into the water, and a moan escaped his clamped lips as his scored face met the icy chill. Long he held his visage under, but came blowing to the surface at last. And he sucked in gulps of air until he’d caught his wind. Wiping water from his right eye he looked at the Armsmaster squatting alongside the gurging rill, bitterness in his one-eyed gaze. “I did not think, Ruric! I did not think! It never entered my thoughts to question the speed of a charging Drake,” gritted Elgo, “and because of that, good Men died.”

“My Lord,” admonished Pwyl, “talk not; instead, immerse your face in the stream over and again until the water has done its work.”

Once more Elgo thrust his features into the cold rush.

“My Prince,” growled Ruric, “it entered none o’ our thoughts to ask after the speed o’ a Dragon in his lair. Hold yerself not at fault for such.”

Again Elgo surfaced, gasping and wheezing.

“My Lord Elgo,” said Reynor, “we all knew the risk we took when we went into the Dragonholt; that perhaps some would die was in all of our minds. Yet we went in gladly, knowing that we served the Realm.”

“Realm, Hèl,” responded Elgo, and would have continued, except Pwyl’s words cut him off-

– “The water, my Lord, the water.”

Time and again Elgo plunged his face into the chill stream, its soothing coolth flowing o’er his tormented features. Yet the water could not take away the hideous agony within his left eye socket, and only partly did it soothe the fiery burn raging leftward along his forehead and down beside his eye.

Finally the healer closely examined the Prince’s face. “Well, Pwyl,” Elgo asked, “what say you?”

Pwyl, heedful of the raw flesh, carefully studied the acid scoring, confirming what he already feared: the quilted cloth mask that Elgo had worn had protected his face somewhat from the splash of Dragon spray, perhaps due to the limestone and charcoal; yet along the left, the unshielded skin had been dreadfully seared, and the eye itself had been holed. “Your brow and temple will heal scarred, my Lord,” answered Pwyl finally, “but the eye is lost. What little remains must be removed, else it will rot and kill you with its poisons.”

Elgo blenched to hear such dire news, yet with his one good eye he looked Pwyl square on. “Then have at it, old fox. And, Reynor, make me a patch; I shall be as Thorgald of old.”

Pwyl put away his pitifully few instruments, the grisly business done: tweezers and small fine knife as well as a narrow searing blade used for cauterization. The Prince, still drugged with a sleeping potion, lay upon blankets within the west chamber, his acid-burned face smeared with a salve, his left eye covered with the black-leather patch Reynor had made.

During the cutting out of Elgo’s ruined eye, Men had gone down into Blackstone, down into the Dragon’s lair, to recover the corpses of the eight slain Harlingar. Tearfully, they had gathered up the reft bodies of their comrades, bearing the remains unto the daylight.

Ruric had commanded that they be borne out to the mouth of the vale and buried there ’neath green turves. “Yet hold yer grief; we shall mourn when last we leave this abode of Death.”

Others had come to the Armsmaster, telling him of the vastness of the trove; and Ruric had glanced first at the bodies of the slain and then over at those struggling to hold Elgo while Pwyl cut at the gaping eye, the nearby searing knife cherry red upon hot coals, and the Armsmaster had wondered then at the curse of Dracongield.

But now the burial squad had departed, and Elgo slept drugged; and in the center of the great western hall lay the gigantic corpse of a slain Cold-drake.

Sometime during the night Ruric was awakened by the sound of metal striking metal. And by lantern light he looked to see Elgo, hammer in one hand, chisel in the other, whelming at the brow of dead Sleeth, cutting a great flap of hide from the Drake’s face. And where Dragonblood dripped, smoke curled up from the stone.

Ruric stood and stepped to the Prince’s side, to hear him muttering under his breath with each blow, but what he said, the Armsmaster could not discern. Sweat ran down Elgo’s arms and back, more poured down his forehead, and he would stop at times to wipe his brow, dabbing carefully at his seared face. At Elgo’s feet lay three dulled chisels, blunted by the iridescent glittering scales. “My Prince-”

Clang! “He ruined my face, Ruric”-Dlang! — “I but return the favor”-Chang! — “Dwarven steel is”-Chank! — “worthy; I took the best from the smithy”-Clank-“yet Drake armor must be forged in the very pits of Hèl.”

Ruric looked into Elgo’s remaining good eye and saw that it was glazed with fever. The Armsmaster awakened both healers, Pwyl and Alda, and the two closely observed the Prince, the healers speaking quietly to one another. Then Alda prepared another potion, yet Elgo would not drink it until the great swath of Dragonhide at last came free. Clank, chank. The Prince dropped hammer and chisel. And wiping his brow, he gulped down the draught, then dragged the flap of skin to his bedding, hurling the hide against the nearby wall and collapsing into a fevered sleep.

“Pwyl? Alda?” Ruric asked an unspoken question.

“It is his burned face, Armsmaster, and his ruined eye. . and mayhap the Dragon spew as well,” answered the senior healer. “They fever him. And there is little that we can do except to pray to Adon that he throws these foul vapors off.” Ruric glanced at Alda, who nodded, agreeing with Pwyl’s words.

The Armsmaster lay down once more and tried to recapture sleep. Yet through his mind rolling over and over came an unbidden single word: Dracongield.

Early morn of the next day the burial squad returned; Elgo’s fever yet raged; and a curious thing happened to Sleeth the Orm’s corpse: where Elgo had chopped away the hide from the Drake’s face, the bones and muscle and tissues inside withered before the daylight; Adon’s Ban took its full toll where the Dragonscale protected not.

This day, too, Ruric went into the depths of Blackstone to see for himself the greatness of the trove. It was vast. More than could be borne in the four pony-drawn waggons. Gems and gold formed the bulk of it, though here and there silveron winked in the lamplight. There were coins and twisted bracelets and carven chalices, torques and bejewelled necklaces and gem-covered cups, ropes of gold, a small silveron trumpet etched with riders ahorse racing among mystic runes carven upon the bell, jewelled ingots, bags of golden tokens, candelabras finely wrought, golden lamps and lanterns and spoons and forks, knives of electrum, emerald necklaces set with rubies, diamonds. . and more, much more, all mounded into a great pile, an Orm’s bed: a hoard beyond reckoning.

Down a side passage near the entrance, Young Kemp and Arlan found twelve or so Dwarf wains, made for hauling large loads of heavy cargo. Though they were ancient, still they were perfectly preserved, having been stored in the dry air of the cavern. They were made to be drawn by four horses each, the trappings hanging on hooks nearby. Three of the waggons were selected, and an unopened bucket of grease was located, but the contents had caked with age; instead, the axles and whiffletrees were treated with tallow and lamp oil, as well as the traces, though fat would be used as soon as game could be felled.

And Men pushed and pulled the wains and waggons down into the Dragon’s lair, for horses refused to go even into the west hall; for the corpse of the Drake lay within, amid the stench of a great dead snake, and the Vanadurin would not force their steeds past this afrightening thing.

And so the trove was loaded, filling four small and three large wains, the Men sweating and swearing as they pushed each waggon in turn out of the bowels of Blackstone, moving the now-laden hoard to the courtyard.

This took all of two days, and throughout Elgo’s fever raged. Pwyl doctored the Prince with herbs and simples, yet nought seemed to have an effect.

On the third day, Elgo’s fever broke, and he fell into a natural sleep. After consulting with the healers as to when Elgo could travel-abed in a waggon if need be-Ruric declared that on the morrow the Warband would set forth, for they had a far northern rendezvous to keep with the Dragonboats of the Fjordsmen.

The next morning Ruric, Reynor, Pwyl, and Alda tenderly placed Elgo upon a bedding of blankets in one of the wains, the burnt-faced Prince still asleep. Beside him upon part of the trove Ruric cast the swath of Dragonhide that Elgo had laboriously gouged from Sleeth’s brow. And as the Sun edged up into the sky on the east side of the mountains, at last the Harlingar column started down the steep-walled vale in the dawntide shadows on the west, leaving Blackstone behind.

Slowly they wended down the sheer canyon, passing under the high stone wall spanning the narrows of the gorge, through the hollow twisting way below the crenellated battlements, and out from under the deserted barbican: four pony-drawn waggons, three Dwarf wains pulled by four steeds each, two empty-saddled horses-Shade one of them-tethered to tailgates, and twenty-six mounts bearing Vanadurin. Forty-one riders had entered the vale; thirty-three survivors rode out.

Long they paced down the twisting valley, following alongside the streambed, the trundling wains rolling slowly upon the ancient carven stone roadway, axles groaning under the burden of the hoard. But finally they emerged from the vale, and came upon eight turved mounds.

Ruric called a halt, and all Men dismounted, the drivers clambering down from the waggons, as well. All stepped unto the close-set barrows, and stood in a semicircle and removed their helms, and many wept. Ruric’s voice lifted up in an elder benediction of the Vanadurin:

Ride forth, Harlingar, ride forth,

Along the Shadowed Way,

Where only Heroes gallop

And Steeds never tire.

Hál, Warriors of the Spear and Saber!

Hál, Warriors of the Knife and Arrow!

Hál, Warriors of the Horn and Horse!

Ride forth, my comrades, ride forth!

And as the echoes of Ruric’s voice died, the Armsmaster looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Elgo standing in the circle, weak and trembling, yet somehow the burnt-faced, one-eyed warrior had managed to join the arc of mourners.

“What day is it, Ruric?” asked Elgo, his voice faint and thready as he leaned upon Reynor while making his way slowly back to the wain.

“ ’Tis the twenty-fifth, my Prince,” answered the Armsmaster, “four days past Year’s Long Day.”

Elgo’s gaze swept up to the Sun. “When left you the gates of Blackstone?”

“At dawning, Lord.” Ruric began to see where Elgo’s thoughts were taking him.

“Then it has taken twice as long to come back out as it did when we first rode in.” The Prince’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“The load we bear is massive, my Lord.” Reynor’s voice was filled with subdued pride. “Sleeth’s bed was greater than any could imagine.”

The Prince turned to the youthful warrior. “I would see this treasure, friend.”

Aided by Reynor and Ruric, Elgo slowly walked from waggon to waggon, inspecting the trove, a hoard nigh beyond counting. And when they came to the last wain the Prince crawled inside and sat upon his bedding. “Reynor, take Young Kemp and what rations you’ll need and ride for the rendezvous on the Boreal Sea. Tell Arik we’ll be late, but hold the boats. We’ll come draggling in as fast as may be, yet exactly when, I cannot say. I’ll send another rider as we get a better gauge on our progress.”

As Reynor and Young Kemp set about preparing for a swift ride north, Elgo looked at Ruric, and then to the eight mounds. “A vast hoard, Armsmaster, yet bought at a dear price.” Ruric nodded, his own gaze straying across Elgo’s acid-galled face set with a black eye patch.

Alda stepped to wainside, bearing a potion. “Rach, Alda,” growled Elgo, “I would have meat and drink, not herb tea.”

Alda smiled, and inclined his head toward Pwyl, who was at that very moment approaching the waggon, carrying a cut of meat and a chunk of waybread and a canteen of water. “You shall have both, my Lord,” said the younger healer.

The original mission plan had called for a journey of three weeks to get to Blackstone from the Boreal Sea, with five weeks allotted for the return. Yet it was six weeks ere the Vanadurin Warband reached the shores of the water. There they found Reynor and Young Kemp, who had been the first sent ahead, and Arlan, who had followed some two weeks later-once the speed of the column had been well estimated-bearing news to be given to Arik and the Fjordsmen as to when the remainder of the waggon-paced Warband might be expected to arrive.

Yet Arik and the Dragonboats were not there.

“How long do we wait, m’Lord?” Young Kemp’s question was upon all of their minds.

“Mayhap a month, Kemp, but no longer,” came Elgo’s reply, as he stood and stirred the campfire, the Prince’s eye patch dark in the nighttide, the acid burns nearly healed, a ruddy scarring upon the brow and along the left temple. “At the rate these wains travel, we’ll be hard pressed to reach any civilization before snow flies.”

“Aye,” agreed Ruric, “for if the Fjordsmen do not come, then we could fare southward along the Rigga Mountains, through Rian and into Rhone, making for the Crestan Pass. But I deem it will be snowed in by the time we get there; and if we choose that route from here, we will ha’e to winter at the foot o’ the col there along the Grimwall.”

“But isn’t Drearwood along that course?” Reynor’s question caused the Harlingar to eye each other uneasily, for Drearwood was a place of dire repute, a grim land shunned by all except those who had no choice but to pass through that dim forest, or those who sought fame. Many was the bard’s tale that spoke of those vile environs, of half-glimpsed monsters beaten off in the dark, of bands of travellers who had entered, never to be seen again.

“Aye”-Ruric nodded-“but ’tis that or fare across the wide end o’ the wedge o’ the Angle o’ Gron.” Again the Vanadurin glanced at one another, many shaking their heads, for they would not willingly cross into Modru’s bleak Realm, even though it was said that the foul Wizard was fled into the Barrens, into the northern wastes.

“We could winter back in Blackstone,” Arlan suggested, “though I would not care to spend the long cold nights in that dark hole of a stone cavern.”

“Nay,” grunted Elgo, “not Blackstone. We have not much grain for the steeds, and to winter in Blackstone, or anywhere else for that matter, will require fodder to see them through to the spring. And there’s nought such at that abandoned Dwarvenholt. We will make for Challerain Keep instead, e’en though it lies southerly, and we would fare east given a choice.”

“What I mislike, my Lord,” growled Ruric, “be this making o’ plans to traipse about the ’scape lugging a great hoard wi’ us. Why, we’ll be the target o’ every brigand in all o’ Mithgar, once the word gets out. Dracongield, pah!”

“Rach,” spat Young Kemp, “where be them Fjordsmen?”

Indeed, where do be the Fjordsmen? Ruric’s thoughts reflected what all wished to know. This be another thing that escaped our cunning plans.

Over the next week the Vanadurin speculated often as to the whereabouts of their allies. Some deemed that perhaps Arik and his band of raiders had met with a dire fate in Jute; others thought mayhap the Dragonboats had been lost at sea; some voiced belief that the raider Captain had not abandoned them, yet perhaps this was to convince not only others but themselves as well. Regardless, they had no way of quickly ascertaining why the boats were not here, and so they settled in for a month-long stay, knowing that Elgo planned on making for Challerain Keep had Arik not arrived by the end of that time.

The horses were pastured in a nearby green vale, feeding on rich summer grass and clover, what little grain remained from their original stores being saved for their planned voyage back to Skaldfjord. . or being saved for an unanticipated southward trek should it come to that.

Lean-tos were constructed as shelters, saplings being cut from the thickets close at hand.

Arlan the hunter led small forays into the nearby hills, bringing venison to the spits of the camp. And Alda, having been raised in a seaside village, showed Reynor and Elgo and others how to draw fish from the waters; even Armsmaster Ruric joined in this effort, proving singularly inept at the sport. And Young Kemp and Pwyl brought roots and tubers down from the hills to throw into the cooking pots. In all, it was an idyllic time, except for the fretting over the Fjordsmen.

The eighth day dawned to dark clouds hanging low upon the brim of the western sea. Foam scudded on the waters, and wind swirled angrily along the shore. The air burgeoned with the promise of a heavy storm, and Men shook out their oiled rain-cloaks.

Slowly the clouds marched eastward, ramping high up into the darkling sky by midmorn. The wind grew stronger with every passing hour, and waves rolled over the sea in long curling combers.

And as the blustering day pressed toward a sunless noon, from the brow of the hill where stood the lookout came a horncry, the pattern lost in the wind. Reynor glanced up at this faint sound, wondering at its source; and he saw the sentry gesticulating frantically, pointing westward.

“My Lord,” Reynor called out to Elgo, “Haldor espies something.”

Elgo got to his feet and looked at the sentinel’s broad gestures; and the Prince began jog-trotting toward the tor, his gait quickening; and as he ran, the wind at last carried Haldor’s words unto him. “Sails ho!” was the sentry’s cry. “Sails ho!”

And there upon the foam-wracked waves, framed by the black sky behind, came three Dragonboats, racing before the wind.

“Surfbison lies at the bottom o’ the sea, burnt and sunk.” Ariks’ voice was grim. “The Jutlanders are somewhere behind us; a fleet pursues, though I deem this storm ha’ driven them to land, and mayhap will throw them from our track. E’en so, Prince Elgo, we must get ready now to load yer goods when the sea will permit, for as soon as the blow is past, we’ve got to take to the deeps; Atli’s Men follow our wake, though Atli himself no longer walks among the living.”

“So your blood debt has been collected, eh, Arik?” Elgo asked, while at the same time motioning for Ruric to join him, the Armsmaster just now returning with Arlan and others from the hunt, a doe slung across Flint’s withers.

“Aye, it ha’,” answered the blond Captain. “Tarly Olarsson split him in two wi’ an axe, though Tarly himself went down wi’ a dagger through his throat as we fought our way back to the ships.

“But wi’ the loss o’ the Surfbison and all her crew, as well as the slaying o’ those from the other ships in the raid, our vengeance came at a higher price than we bargained for. .” Arik paused for a moment, looking at Elgo’s features. “. . much as I deem that ’ee perhaps paid on your own mission.”

Elgo lightly fingered the still-tender scars on his left temple. “Aye, you’re right at that, Captain. We, too, paid more than we bargained for. Eight Men fell to Sleeth. And he took out my eye and scarred me for life. But in the end Sleeth the Orm fell to us.”

“ ’Ee slew the Drake?” Arik’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

Elgo nodded as Ruric joined them. “By Adon’s hand, we slew him,” answered Elgo, “tricked him into daylight.”

Arik shook his head. “Tricked him into the Sun. . Hah! Lad, ’ee be a marvel. How deadly. How simple. Now why be it that none thought o’ it sooner, I wonder?”

“Ah, Captain, I cannot claim all the glory. ’Twas something that my sister Elyn said long ago: ‘. . it sounds as if only Adon Himself could slay one,’ she remarked as we talked about killing Dragons. And she was right, though at the time I did not see that what she had said had any bearing upon the slaying of a Cold-drake. It took me some six or so years to recognize the truth in her words and come upon the plan for striking Sleeth dead.”

“And his trove, did ’ee come by that, too?” Arik’s eyes swept the Harlingar campsite, for the first time seeing the Dwarf wains alongside the pony waggons.

“Aye, we got the Dracongield.” Ruric’s voice was tinged with rue.

“Armsmaster, have the Men gather in the horses,” Elgo commanded. “And get set to break camp and lade the boats at Arik’s word. Jutlanders are somewhere nigh, and we would not have them come up on our hard-won treasure.”

“Would it not be better to meet them upon the land?” Ruric asked, his words cast such that it was clear where his thoughts lay.

“Aye, if it came to it, Old Wolf,” answered Arik, “but better yet to slip them altogether. Their ships be not as fast as those o’ ours, and so we set sail as soon as the blow will let us.”

As if somehow his words were a signal, cold rain sheeted down upon the land and sea alike, driven hard before the wind.

It rained all that day and the next, the gale blowing fiercely. Steeds had been gathered from the valley pasturage and used to hale the Dragonboats up onto the shingle out of the waves. And Men prepared to break camp quickly, for as Arik had told them, the storm would end for the Jutlanders first, and they would come riding in on its tail.

And now Arik surveyed the sky. Rain still fell, though not as hard. Elgo stood at the Captain’s side, as well as the commanders of Foamelk and Wavestrider. Ruric, too, was there. “In this cove the waves slacken,” said Arik, eyeing the boats down on the strand. “Methinks that we can lade now, setting sail wi’in an hour or so.”

“Arik, this may be but a lull.” The speaker was the Captain of Wavestrider, a hale Man in his late thirties, blond braids hanging down to his waist. “ ’Ee know the Boreal is wild as a Wolf this time o’ year, sometimes slinking quietly out o’ sight, other times raiding wi’ fury.”

“Aye, Trygga, it is at that,” responded Arik, “but if this be no lull, then the Jutlander fleet will soon come calling, and we would be long gone ere then.”

Arik turned to Egil, commander of the Foamelk, also braided, as were many of the Fjordsmen; he seemed to be in his early fifties, an astonishing age for a sea raider. “What say ’ee, Egil? ’Ee ha’e plied these waters more than any o’ us.”

“Ai, fickle as a Woman is the Boreal,” the elder Captain growled. “Right now, though, she seems to be inviting us to ride her bosom. But who can say if she means it? Not I. Might as well cast lots wi’ Fortune, as to try to outguess Lady Boreal. But I say. . let us chance it.”

And so they roped the horses once more to the hulls and backed the sterns of the Dragonboats out into the choppy surf. Cargo was loaded, and the vast trove carried aboard, the Fjordsmen marvelling at its extent. The treasure had been divided roughly into thirds, each ship receiving its share. The pony carts and Dwarf wains were abandoned, left upon the shore, but the ponies and horses were taken aboard, for steeds were the true treasure of the Harlingar.

And none of this lading was an easy task, for the waves pitched and tossed the Dragonships about. But after much struggle, Men cursing, at times losing their tempers, some sustaining injuries, all losing their footing in the billowing tide at one time or another, many several times, at last the job was done. Hardest of all was the loading of the horses, and Elgo despaired that they would ever accomplish it. But then Reynor struck upon the means, watching the surges tossing the gangways, noting that the waves seemed to come in sets of seven-a fleeting span of calm between sets-and charging his horse, Wing, through the lull and up. Following his example, most of the remaining riders and steeds made it up on the first try.

Sternweighting the boats and plying the oars, the Harlingar helping the battle-thinned ranks of the Fjordsmen with the rowing, at last the three Dragonships pulled free of the shingle and set out for the distant goal. And rain hammering down upon Man, horse, and horseling alike, hulls laden with Dracongield, sails were set before a fierce quartering wind that drove the boats climbing up to the peaks of the mountainous crests and sliding down into the depths of the cavernous troughs, flying northeastward upon the heaving mammoth bosom of the fickle Lady Boreal.

That night, in the darkness, the storm struck in fury, its rage doubling and doubling again. Waves slammed into the boats, crashing over the sides, the quartering waves precipitously rolling the hulls. Many lost their footing, Ruric among them, the Armsmaster slamming into an oar trestle, whelming his head into the oaken beam, falling stunned. Pwyl crawled to the unconscious warrior and sat on the decking, placing his arms about Ruric, gathering him up and holding him tightly, keeping him from rolling about with the plunging of the ship.

Horses, too, slipped upon the wet pitching planks, some to come crashing down upon the deck, and Elgo dispatched Men to aid the steeds and to steady them.

Men bailed, yet in the fury of the waves more water came over the wales, drenching Men, horse, and cargo alike, swashing the inner hull with foaming spew, seawater runnelling among hooves and feet.

Elgo struggled back to the stern of the Longwyrm, where Arik shouted orders above the shrieking wind. Seeing the Prince in the light of his storm lantern, Arik put his head close to that of Elgo’s. “We’re swinging to the steerboard and casting out the sea anchors and reefing the sail. We’ve no chance but to run straight before the wind, northerly or easterly I think, but there’s no guarantee o’ that.”

A Fjordhorn sounded, and was answered by a faint cry astern. Arik grunted. “Good. They know the plan.

“Go forward, Prince, and ha’e yer Men bail as if their lives depend upon it-for indeed they do-and perhaps we’ll all live to see the morning.”

Again and again the ship fell with juddering crashes into the sea. And in the blackness Men bailed, some using chalices from the Dragon hoard. A Fjordsman came and bade them to lash themselves to the shield cleats, so that if they were washed overboard they wouldn’t be lost. Ropes were uncoiled and Men cinched them about their waists and to the wooden fittings as directed, and then returned to bailing.

Bearing a lanthorn and clutching at the strakes of the pitching ship, Ruric, now conscious, made his way to Elgo, the Armsmaster drenched, a great lump upon his forehead, his eyes wide in the swaying light, his look fey, one of doom. Pulling the Prince down to crouch beside him upon the planks, Ruric shouted above the storm: “My Lord, the Dracongield, it be cursed. We must rid ourselves o’ it. We must throw it overboard.”

“Nay, Ruric,” Elgo called back, his voice nearly lost in the howl of the wind and the smashing of the hull into the waves, “too many good Men died for that gold. We’ll not cast it into the sea for the sake of an old wives’ tale.”

“But my Prince, it be cursed, I tell ye. Already, it slew eight Men, and it took yer eye and scarred ye. And if we keep it then Fortune’s third face will turn our way.” The edges of Ruric’s eyes rolled white, and he cast hag-ridden glances toward the dark bulk amidship. Yet even though daunted, still he stood ready to deal with the evil of the Dracongield.

Grasping the top wale and pressing against the ship’s side, Pwyl had come forward and now knelt beside Ruric, listening to the Armsmaster’s pleas. “My Lord, it is the blow he took upon his head that makes him so.”

Ruric whirled leftward, his hand upon the hilt of his long-knife, glaring at the healer and spitting, “Nay, Pwyl, ’tis the accursed Dracongield! Treat me not as if I were but a frightened child. The treasures o’ Drakes carry bane and bale. The trove be damned, I tell ye. Cursed!”

In that moment the lashing rain began to slacken, the shrieking wind to abate, though the mountainous waves ran on.

“Nay, Ruric,” soothed Pwyl, placing a calming hand upon the warrior, “you see, even now the storm passes. ’Tis nought but natural weather, and not some mad bane.”

His haggard eyes filled with uncertainty and confusion, Ruric glanced at the sky and then back at the hoard, unwilling to believe that the Dracongield was harmless. He turned one last time to Elgo. “My Lord Prince. .” The Armsmaster’s voice fell silent, waiting for an answer to his unspoken appeal.

But Elgo shook his head, No, and in the pitching ship, Ruric stumbled away toward the bow, doom in his eyes.

“Aid him, Pwyl,” Elgo bade the healer, “aid him if you can.” And Pwyl followed after.

Marching swiftly away like some strange moving wall, the howling storm passed from them; quickly the hammering wind and scourging rain died, leaving an eerie calm behind, though the seas ran nearly as high. And the sky above rapidly cleared to reveal a nearly three-quarter Moon shining brightly down; all around them in the distance spun a great dark encirclement; to the fore, abeam, and aft, a black wall of clouds juddered widdershins, closer to steerboard than port. Behind-Adon knows how they had managed to stay close-climbing now and then up the crests and into sight, only to disappear down into the troughs again, rode Foamelk and Wavestrider, their storm lanthorns gleaming through the pellucid air.

And in the relative stillness, Arik cried out, “Keep bailing, lads, we be along the inside skirt of the eye of the storm. Soon it will be upon us again, just as strong as before, and I ween this time it will blow at a different angle.”

Yet, even though the air was calm, and the reefed wet sail hung slack, still the great waves bore them forward, seemingly at an ever-increasing pace. And in the distance beyond the bow they could hear a strange deep rumbling, a sound of cascading water.

Swifter and swifter the Dragonboat gained headway, in spite of the fact that the crew did nought. A look of alarm crossed Arik’s features. Desperately, he scanned the sky, looking for a guide star, yet the bright Moon itself blocked off some, and others stood behind the high black circling wall of juddering clouds. Arik turned to his steersman. “Swift now, Njal, what reckon ’ee our position?”

“Captain, I see no stars to guide us,” answered Njal, “but yon lies an island.”

As they crested a wave, far off to the port and just visible in the moonlight, Arik could see jutting above the water a great barren stone crag, a bleak rock of an isle with sides plummeting sheer into the crashing waves, and he sucked air hissing between clenched teeth. “Seabanes,” came his dread whisper.

Whirling rightward, Arik sprang forward, racing down the length of the ship, shoving Men aside, ducking past horses, shoving them as well, and all the while howling nought but a wordless cry.

And as he reached the bow and leapt upon the thwartplate and clutched the carven Dragon’s brow and pulled himself upward, he could see in the distance ahead a great spinning black funnel pitching down into the depths of the sea.

And he turned, his eyes wild with terror, shouting to Fjordsmen and Harlingar alike: “Row, ’ee bastards, row, for we be caught in the suck o’ the Maelstrom!”

At first the Men did not understand what it was that Arik had cried, but then he came back the length of the ship, cursing and yelling orders, telling them what lay ahead. And all the while the Longwyrm gained speed, hurling at a quickening pace toward a watery doom, toward the great whirlpool sucking endlessly at the sky, while all about them in the distance spun a high black wall of clouds, storm and sea alike churning leftward. . widdershins.

And overhead on its endless course the silent Moon gazed down.

Swiftly now, oars were unshipped from the trestles and fitted through the rowing ports, Fjordsmen hurriedly barking out instructions to the Harlingar; for the battle-thinned ranks of the ship’s crew were not enough to man all stations, and the Vanadurin would have to fill in for those who had fallen to the Jutes.

From the stern sounded a Fjordhorn as Arik signalled the boats behind, then grabbed an axe and chopped through the ropes towing the sea anchors.

And ahead, the roar of Maelstrom grew ever louder.

To the beat of a timbrel the Men began rowing, the Vanadurin awkward at first but gaining skill with every stroke.

Plsh! slapped the oars into the rolling waves, the steerboard hard over, attempting to guide them away.

And behind came Foamelk and Wavestrider, oars out and stroking; but like the Longwyrm ahead of them, they too were caught in the currents of the immense whirlpool, currents even now swinging the boats along the turning rim of an enormous black spinning vortex that roared down into the very ebon depths of Hèl.

And the eye of the encircling storm churned about them, black clouds hurling around the distant dark perimeter.

Hurricane and Maelstrom, two raw forces of a savage world, each a spinning doom, yet neither deflecting nor even affecting the other: the vast cyclone steadily stalking northeastward, paying no heed to the ravening mouth insatiably swallowing the Boreal Sea; the mighty whirlpool endlessly drawing the roaring ocean into its abyssal gut without regard to the ravaging whirling wind.

And caught within this elemental fury like insignificant wooden chips came three Dragonboats, spinning ’round the twisting hole in the sea, futile oars beating out a grim tattoo of death.

Plsh! Pltt!

“Row, ’ee sea dogs, row!” Arik’s voice could be but barely heard above the roaring gurge. “Row or we’re all gone to a churning Hèl!”

Splsh! Splt!

Elgo stood beside Reynor, both on the same oar, corded muscles standing out in bold relief as they hove the blade to a furious beat, working synchronistically.

In ship’s center the tightly bunched steeds squealed in panic, shoving against the closely spaced oaken penning poles, rearing up and crashing down upon one another, biting and kicking, forelegs climbing upon the strakes and wales in their fear, the roaring Maelstrom more than they could bear. Some fell to the deck and were trampled to death, two ponies among these. Yet, not a Man could help them, for all the Men were busy stroking the oars.

Nay! Not all! For Elgo looked up with his one eye to see Ruric at the Dracongield, hurling treasure overboard, wordlessly shouting.

The Prince reached Ruric just as the Armsmaster scooped up a small silver horn to fling into the sea, and Elgo’s fist crashed into Ruric’s jaw, dropping him like a felled steer, the horn blanging down to the deck beside the unconscious Man.

And the wall of the hurricane strode ever closer. And the funnel of the Maelstrom pitched ever steeper, the boats sliding down the steadily increasing slope of the spinning black throat.

And great suckered tentacles, malignantly glowing with a ghastly phosphorescence, came looping out of the churn, grasping at the sides of the Dragonboats. Men yelled and drew back, and some hammered at the hideous tendrils, using whatever came to hand. A huge slimy arm wrapped about steersman Njal, and he was wrenched overboard, his screams lost in the thunder of the whirl. And behind, monstrous tentacles, burning with the cold daemonfire of the deeps, reached up and grasped a ship, and Wavestrider was crushed and pulled under, Men, horses, treasure, all dragged to a spinning watery doom.

And the Moon disappeared in the howling black wall of the storm as the edge of the eye passed over the Maelstrom, the whelming wind and hurtling rain catching up to the Dragonboats once more.

“Bend sail, by damn, bend sail!” cried Arik, shoving Men toward the mast, as the last glimmer of Foamelk’s storm-lanterns disappeared down into the raging abyss below, the sistership swallowed by the bellowing doom.

And in the twisting churn, the square-cut sail of the last of the Dragonboats was set into the teeth of the hurricane, the slender whisker pole guided to catch the elemental violence.

“Hold, damn ’ee, hold,” Arik gritted through clenched teeth, now haling the steerboard hard over as scourging rain hurtled through the blackness to lash upon them all, the raider Captain cursing and praying at one and the same time for both mast and canvas to bear the shriek, that neither timber shiver nor cloth rend in the blast.

And riding the wild winds of a savage hurricane, up and out of the ravening maw of the whirling Maelstrom came the Longwyrm, pulling free of the roaring suck, pulling up and out from a churning mouth that ne’er before had been cheated of its intended victim, cheated by a raw rage shrieking o’er the waves. Up and out came the ship and over the twisting rim, hurled by an elemental fury into the wrath beyond.

And driven before a howling wind, the benumbed survivors fled onward through a vast darkness across a storm-tossed sea, bearing the remains of a great treasure trove, a hoard of Dracongield.