Dragondoom

CHAPTER 18

Late Winter, 3E1602

[This Year]

Black Kalgalath watched the shimmering image approach across the heaving lava pool. Fountains of fire gouted upward, molten rock spewing forth. Still the dark, robed, hooded figure came onward, unaffected by the volcanic blast, striding upon the belch of magma vomiting up from the gut of the world.

Upon the brimstone ledge that formed his flaming dais, Black Kalgalath waited.

At last the Manlike form stood before the Drake, stood upon the seething surface, stood within a very crucible of creation and destruction, as flame and stone united in elemental fury.

“Dark Wyrm,” whispered the visitant-a Man? An Elf? Something else? It mattered not to Kalgalath.

“Andrak,” acknowledged the Dragon. “What brings the great and powerful Andrak into my domain?” Echoes of mocking laughter seemed to ring in Kalgalath’s brazen voice.

Lava heaved, and molten stone gushed upward. Overhead, the incandescent chamber sagged, and a massive stream of fiery magma poured down upon the shadowy intruder, to no effect.

From within the environs of the dark cowl came the whispered response: “Sleeth is dead, Dark Wyrm.”

Belying his great bulk, Black Kalgalath snaked his head down and forward, staring directly into the visitant’s hood, his Drake’s gaze seeking to penetrate the shadows within. But even Dragon eyes could not see what lay inside the cowl. “Dead? Sleeth? — How?”

“The Ban, Dark Wyrm,” hissed Andrak. “Adon’s Ban!” His fists clenched. “Cursed be the day when He set His Ban upon us all, shackling our power.”

“Pah, Wizard!”-Kalgalath’s words clanged-“Your power is limited by the Sun, not mine! My fire burns!” A great blast of flame burst forth from the Drake’s throat, roaring over Andra’s dark form-to no avail, the Mage acknowledging it only by a motion of annoyance.

“Yes, Dark Wyrm,” sissed the Wizard, “your flame burns. And had you joined with your loyal brethren, especially with Daagor, the outcome of the Great War would have been different, and all Drakes would-”

“Silence!” Kalgalath’s great voice clashed forth. “Prattle to me not of how things might have been!”

A hostile stillness stretched taut between Mage and Drake, a silence anchored upon the massive bellow of the lava cauldron. Roaring fountains of liquescent stone vomited upward, slathering both Dragon and Wizard with magma beyond bearing, yet neither took heed.

At last Andrak spoke, whispering: “You can now have Blackstone, Dark Wyrm, a lair befitting a great Drake.”

“Blackstone? I?” Kalgalath’s golden eyes blazed in contempt. “Bah! What need I of such a cold tomb? Look around you, Wizard, and see my magnificent caldera.”

“You have this place only in your dark dreams, Wyrm,” sissed Andrak, waving a negligent hand as if to dismiss the boiling lava cavern. “With Blackstone you would gain a true fortress beyond compare, one you would occupy in the waking world as well.”

“I covet my fire, Mage,” boomed the Dragon, “and in Blackstone it burns too deeply for my etheric self to reach. But here. .” Kalgalath gestured, five glittering adamantine claws sweeping grandly. A huge burst of lava roared forth from the incandescent wall behind the brimstone ledge, an enormous flaming cataract brightly cascading into the glowing vault.

“Enough, Dark Wyrm, enough. These displays are irksome, and weary me.” Andrak turned as if to go.

Kalgalath said nought, waiting.

As if remembering a stray thought, once more Andrak faced toward the Drake; and unheard echoes of brazen laughter seemed to fill the cavern.

“One thing, Dark Wyrm-” Andrak began.

“The hoard, Mage.” The great Dragon shifted his bulk, his voice tinged with the explanation of the obvious. “Why else would you come?” Again silent mocking reverberated.

Only by the white knuckles of his clenched fists did the robed Magician in the dark cowl show his anger, yet after but a moment did he master his ire, his hands relaxing open. “Why indeed, Wyrm. Why else indeed,” came the hissing admission.

“Who has it, and what trifling do you want?” Black Kalgalath turned his head, his golden gaze watching magma heave and spew.

“It is but a small, insignificant item, Dark Wyrm,” whispered the Mage, his unseen eyes studying the back of his hand.

“Hah!” Kalgalath boomed. “Insignificant? Nay, Mage. Never would you ask for such. Instead it would be an item to hold sway over others. A power token, let us say. Or better yet, a feartoken.”

“Mayhap, Dark Wyrm,” sissed Andrak, “yet that is a minor price to pay for such a hoard as Sleeth’s.”

“Describe the token, Wizard.” Kalgalath’s voice took on a tone that said he grew tired of this tit-for-tat game.

“It is nought but a small silver horn, Wyrm,” whispered Andrak. “Seemingly Dwarven made. Runes carven on its bell, twined with riders on horseback racing among the glyphs.”

“Know you that this token lies within the hoard?” Now Kalgalath peered intently at the Mage. “For if it does not then the hoard becomes mine with nought owed you.”

There was a long pause as Andrak considered Kalgalath’s words. “No, Wyrm, I cannot say for certain that it lies within the hoard. The horn was hidden away long ago-in Blackstone, it is believed. Yet perhaps not. But if so, it could have been part of the hoard. Too, some of the treasure was lost, and now lies at the bottom of the sea, and mayhap the horn was among that which sank. But if it is with the remainder of the hoard-”

“Fear not, Mage; if it is there, then I will bring it to you, though I claim the rest of the treasure as mine for this deed I do.” Kalgalath again snaked his head down to confront the dark figure. “Did I not bring you the Kammerling?”

“Yes, Wyrm,” hissed Andrak. “And I ward it well. None shall gain it to come seeking you.”

“As I remember our bargain, Wizard, you were to guard the Kammerling, and in return I would hold your true name secret.” Kalgalath arched his mighty neck, peering down at the Mage from a great height. Behind the Drake, fire poured forth from molten stone wall to meet like flame spewing up from below. “Hence, as I see it, we each hold that which could slay the other. A fair compact, I would deem.”

“Nay, Wyrm, not so fair,” sissed Andrak, “for I must deal with those champions who come seeking the Rage Hammer, whereas you must merely keep silent.”

Again, though all was still, soundless brazen echoes of mirth seemed to ring out from the Drake, and waves of ire beat forth from the Mage.

Finally: “We dally, Wizard, and speak of bargains long past struck.” Kalgalath’s glittering eye fixed upon the shadowy figure. “Who has the hoard, and where?”

“The Harlingar, the Vanadurin,” came the whispered reply. “At the keep of Aranor, upon the Steppes of Jord. ’Twas Aranor’s son, Elgo, who tricked Sleeth into the Sun that slew him.”

“A Man?” Kalgalath’s voice held true surprise.

“A Vanadurin warrior, Dark Wyrm,” sissed Andrak. “He slew Sleeth and took the treasure as his own.”

Kalgalath’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “For his presumption, this Elgo, I will take lives as well as the hoard.”

The great Drake then lay his massive head down upon the flaming ledge, his eyes closed; no longer did he seem to note the presence of the Mage.

Long moments passed, while molten stone frothed and spumed.

“When?” hissed Andrak.

“When I deem,” replied Kalgalath. His eyes remained closed.

Finally, the dark figure turned and walked away from the mighty Dragon’s burning throne. Lava heaved and magma burst forth; molten fountains of flaming stone roared upward, meeting fiery cataracts of melted rock cascading down into the bellowing inferno. Andrak paid it no heed as he strode across the churning surface.

Slowly the dark figure diminished in the distance, until at last it was gone.