Dragondoom

CHAPTER 29

Late Fall, 3E1602

[The Present]

The Sun shone down upon Elyn and Thork, but little warmth did they gather from its light. Around them grey mountains reared upward, the stone barren and bleak. To the north and east stood one crest above the others, ebon as the night. “Yon lies our goal,” whispered Elyn, pointing.

“Nay, Princess,” responded Thork, his voice grim. “If the Wolfmage be right, it is but a way station along our route. Andrak’s holt is what we seek, and within, the Rage Hammer. This Black Mountain contains but a map to guide us to our destination.”

They stood and looked for long moments more; then, still leading Digger and Wind, down through the col they continued, the way turning northeasterly, heading for a winding vale below that led toward the dark ramparts ahead. Night fell ere they came down from the heights, and weary, they made camp in the curve of a mountain wall.

As they sat huddled with their backs against the chill stone rampart, no fire warmed them, for there was no wood to burn among this sterile rock. It was then that Elyn came at last to the conclusion that she and Thork had been working toward for many weeks.

“Prince Thork”-her voice was soft, yet filled with determination-“I would bespeak my mind.”

The Châkka warrior turned his face toward her, and in the pallid moonlight, his eyes glittered as would polished jet. And even though her features were shadowed by the Moon behind, still his own sight was such that he could see her clearly, her pale face like a lambent beacon shining from within, her clear vision sharp as that of the red hawk seen in days gone by. “Say on, Princess Elyn.”

Taking a deep breath, Elyn continued: “These past weeks we have ridden across half the face of Mithgar, I ween. And when we started, enemies we were. Yet I have found you to be most honorable, most noble, one that more than once I trusted my very life unto. No better companion could I ask at my side, and no better defender at my back.

“Yet our Nations are now enemies to one another, though it was not always so in the past. We fight because of a treasure stolen, a treasure now stolen again. We fight because of Pride and Greed. We fight because on one side a Prince of Jord was killed, and on the other, a Dwarven King. We fight because of Men and Dwarves slain in War, some by the hand of each other, some by the breath of a Dragon.

“I say that the time has come for this madness to cease. Not only because the trove is once more in the claws of a Drake, but because our two Folk have no business warring against one another. Over these past months, by your deeds and words, by your steadfast actions alone, you have shown me that my hatred of Dwarves was misplaced pride and grief, just as I hope that I have shown you the same.

“We in Jord misunderstood your motivations, just as you in Kachar misunderstood ours. It was not greed that drove you to ask for the return of your treasure; it was not thievery that caused us to refuse. We honestly thought that you had abandoned it, not thinking upon the span of a Dwarven life. You honestly thought we had stolen it, not thinking upon the years of Man.

“Let us make a pact, we two, that all we do henceforth shall be in the cause of peace between our two Realms, for such honorable foes as we, should instead be friends.”

Elyn fell silent, waiting for his reply. But it was not long in coming. “I could not have said it better, Princess.” Thork’s voice was laden with some deep emotion, yet what it was, neither he nor Elyn could fathom.

Elyn reached out and took Thork’s hand, holding the gnarled fingers against her cheek, and tears wetted the back of his hand. And slowly, hesitantly, with his other hand he gently brushed the tips of his fingers across her face, stroking away the droplets, the streaks.

Elyn released his hand, and he took his touch back unto himself, and sat in silence for a while. Yet at last he spoke of the trove, for he knew that still it lay at the center of the War between Jord and Kachar. “There is this, though, my Lady: Should we succeed against Black Kalgalath, what of the treasure then? Our two Folk will ask how should it be divided. This I propose: that it be divided in twain, each taking half, no more. And to prevent argument as to which gets the better of it, your Folk shall divide it into two equal shares, and my Folk shall choose which share to take home.”

Elyn’s silver laughter suddenly rang outward, and she reached out and gripped his two hands and squeezed them in delight. “An old trick, my Dwarven Warrior, yet one that will surely assure fairness.”

They spoke at length concerning how each could bring this truce about, how each could convince their respective monarchs, King Aranor and DelfLord Baran, to see reason in this plan. Surely a Châkka Prince and a Jordian Princess, companions in adversity, could prevail. And all the while she held his hands, and the icy dark seemed somehow warmer.

The wan light of the dawn found Elyn and Thork ready to move onward, for they had not slept much in the frigid night. Weary with fatigue, on down from the col they rode, Wind and Digger plodding as if worn too. Northeastward in the distance stood their first goal, a mountain as dark as jet. And as they rode down toward the twisting barren valley below, the Sun rose up into the sky, its rays seeming somehow chill. And still the silent grey stone of the high bleak mountains of Xian frowned down upon them, as if they somehow intruded where none were meant to go.

At a morning stop, Elyn looked long at the ebon peak. “It is said by my Folk that Black Mountain is reaching for heaven but is rooted in Hèl.”

Thork grunted but made no other response, and Elyn looked to see what distracted him. The Dwarf was staring up and to the east, where a vast ice field pressed down within a great long slot between two far-reaching walls of lofty mountains. “What think you is that dark blot clutched within the grasp of the ice?”

“What blot?” Stepping behind the Dwarf, Elyn’s eyes sought to find what Thork referred to.

“There”-Thork pointed, and the Princess’s gaze followed his outstretched arm-“just leftward of the crag.”

Down within the ice was a dark object, made small by the distance. “Most likely a boulder, Thork. What else could it be?”

Thork stared for a moment more, then turned and took the feed bag from Digger’s muzzle. “In the Sky Mountains where dwell distant kith, Châkka have found great hairy beasts frozen within glaciers: long curving tusks; large flaps of ears; flat bottomed feet; and strangest of all, great, flexible snouts. Beasts much like those that are said to dwell in the Lands across the Avagon Sea, but larger, much larger, and covered with a thick matting of fur.

“A fable is told among Châkka youth that upon a time these creatures did serve the Winter King, honoring him in all things.

“In those days, Summer, Winter, Spring, Fall, all dwelled within the land at one and the same time.

“Yet there came a day when the Winter King thought to steal the Queen of Summer and take her off to his icy Realm. In this deed, the great beasts would not follow, for it held no honor. And they did battle with the Winter King.

“And the Seasons saw this mighty strife, heard the trumpeting of the great creatures, felt the rumbling of the earth beneath their giant stompings. All knew that these beasts were noble animals and rushed to aid them. And round and round the Seasons raced, shoving, chasing one another, striking and smiting, for they knew not which side to take.

“But of a sudden, the battle ceased, for the beasts were slain, dying valiantly, protecting the Queen of Summer. And all mourned, for they loved the creatures dearly. Even the cold Winter King shed frozen tears, and locked the beasts away in fields of ice, preserving them so that all could see the great wrong he had committed.

“And since then the Seasons have not dwelt together, and instead march in an immutable progression across the Land, Summer as far from Winter as can be, guarded by Spring on one side and Fall on the other.

“It is also told that in the last days, these creatures will rise up again, and battle the Winter King once more, but this time they shall prevail.”

All the while that Thork was speaking, Elyn’s eyes gazed upward at the distant spot within the glacier, and a great sadness filled her chest. And when he fell silent at last, she turned unto him, tears glittering in her eyes, and quickly embraced him, but said nought. Then she stepped to Wind and readied herself for travel, and did not see that Thork’s dark eyes glistered with sadness as well.

Two more days they fared down within the folds of the harsh grey land, drawing nearer and nearer to the ebon spire, and the closer they got the more Elyn fretted.

“Thork, it isn’t as if we can just walk up to this mountain and knock for entrance.” Elyn’s eyes twinkled as she lowered her voice and took on an officious tone: “Boom, boom. Let me in. I’m on a mission. I need to look at your map.”

In spite of himself, Thork broke into laughter, and was joined by Elyn’s giggles. “Nay, Princess,” he chuckled, “that we cannot do.”

Suddenly sober, Elyn asked, “Well then, Prince Thork, you are a Dwarf and know of these things, these delvings of mountain strongholts; what should be our plan?”

Wind and Digger plodded forward many steps ere Thork replied, and all the while the Dwarf eyed the dark looming incline. “Upon the slopes of Mountains there are some locations better than others for the placement of gates: defendable, sheltered from the wind, good access to roadways for the movement of goods in and out, safe from rock-slides-these are some of the things I would look for, were it a Châkka gate, although I have not told even the half of it. Secret gates are another matter, for they must lay in a place suited to their purpose-a sally port, a secret escape, whatever-and are all but unfindable unless you know exactly where to look. . or have a map.

“But as to the Wizardholt within Black Mountain, I know not whether the same rules apply; I know not whether a road there be, if it matters about the wind, or if slides would dare tumble down those slopes. And if it be a secret Wizard gate we must find, then I say we should turn our backs right now and go elsewhere, for I would deem the cause to be a hopeless one.

“Nay, first we shall look for that with which I am familiar, and trust that Wizards build to account for the same things we Châkka do, for if they do not, then sheer chance alone must guide our steps.

“And if it be sheer chance we find we must rely upon, then I judge it will be a long search, for yon Black Mountain is vast and could hold a thousand gates, gates that are not hidden, and still could we search for weeks and not stumble across even one.”

Onward they plodded, the hooves of the steeds ringing upon the rock, echoes chattering down the grey canyon they passed along, and Elyn eyed the great black mountain towering upward in the near distance. But Thork’s eyes were elsewhere-upon the path they trod-and of a sudden he drew Digger to a halt and leapt down and knelt and studied the stone. Elyn, too, reined to a stop and dismounted, studying the path as well. Thork’s eyes looked up and caught hers, and he grinned fiercely. “This be an ancient roadbed, Princess, fallen into ruin, but a tradeway nonetheless, leading mayhap unto the very Wizards’ holt itself.”

“Ah, my Dwarven Warrior,” laughed Elyn, “well did the Wolfmage title you, when he called you the ‘one to guide.’ ”

“I know not how well named I am by the Mage of the Wolfwood, my Lady,” responded Thork, rising to his feet, “but this do I ken: that it was the Wolfmage who set us upon this route between thumb and first finger of those distant peaks behind us; I deem he well knows how to reach the Wizards’ dwelling, and guided our steps aright.”

All the rest of that day, the two pressed northeasterly, drawing nearer and nearer to the great black slopes. And the deeper they rode into the mountains, the more certain they became that they were upon the correct path, for frequently could they see sign that once this was a road. Ancient pavestones running in unbroken stretches for up to a furlong; a hundred yards of stone curbing along one stretch upon the right; a collapsed bridge over a shallow stream; stone slopes carven away to provide passage alongside sheer rises: by these indications and more did they see that this once was a well-travelled route, a path of commerce.

Now the land began to rise, and they rode up and over ascensions and down again into the folds of the land, slowly gaining elevation. And as they topped each crest they could see far and wide, peaks rising up beyond peaks, to the limit of the eye’s seeing. But always the dominant view was of the great black mountain in the foreground reaching upward toward the sky.

And now the stone about them began to darken, and the deeper they rode, the deeper the shading became. “It is the reach of the Wizards’ Mountain,” noted Thork, “lunging outward to touch even this.”

The cold high Sun passed across the sky and fell beyond the distant mountains, and darkness came upon the land. And once again the two made a fireless camp, settling in for the night among the cold dark stone. His back to a tall black rock, Thork glanced up at the moonless, starless sky, and huddled deeper into his fur cloak. “Princess, this is a harsh unforgiving land we pass through, today and yesterday and yesterdays agone; yet tomorrow I deem it will be even worse, for deep within my bones I feel a winter storm brewing.”

For a moment Elyn shivered uncontrollably, but she did not know why. And a chill wind sprang up, sweeping down from the north.

The great howling storm whelmed down upon the range midmorn of the next day, catching Elyn and Thork upon the open slopes. A thundering wind tore at them, hurling shrieking whiteness before it, and they could not see farther than a few yards. Shards of ice blasted Woman, Dwarf, horse, and pony alike, thrashing upon them, clawing at them, lashing as would iron-tipped scourges, slashing crystals hurtling into eyes and face, burning with cold. And the wind was as a mighty force hammering at them, causing steeds to stumble and reel, and riders to sway and bend low in the saddle to keep from being swept off. And horse and pony struggled forward into the yawling white, yet they were afrightened by the screaming wind, and often balked. Elyn dismounted and led her grey, and so too did Thork lead Digger. And they came to a standing black rock and attempted to shelter in its lee; but the cruel wind shrieked and spun, whipping at them with its harsh eddying.

Elyn leaned her head close to Thork’s and shouted to be heard. “Thork! Mountains are your domain. What now?”

Thork’s black eyes captured hers, and placing a gloved hand behind her head he pulled her face near his and called out above the shrieking wind: “Behind is no shelter, of that we are certain. We cannot stay here. We must press onward, for ere the storm struck I saw in the high distance a fold in the land, a fold where we may find refuge. But it is long from here, and we may perish in the attempt. Yet would I rather die struggling than to yield without a battle.”

A grim smile lit Elyn’s features. “Lead on, Pathfinder; I follow.”

Out from the scant shelter into the yawling howl pressed the twain, afoot, pulling stubborn frightened steeds after. And screaming blinding whiteness swallowed them, pummeling, hammering, sucking the heat from them and hurtling it upon frigid black stone. Yet they toiled onward, bending double in the whelming blast.

Hours fled, and still they struggled upward, stumbling, falling, rising again to go on, each step now a torture, their breath ragged and burning, seeking the fold seen by Thork. And still the white wind crashed upon them, ice shards coating them from crown to foot, weighing them down with its burden.

Night fell, yet it is moot whether or not they even noted the darkness, for the only thing that mattered was the struggle upward. And when the shrieking day gradually transformed into dark howling night, two gasping comrades leading two blowing steeds did nought but fight onward, collapsing, rising, tumbling, getting up, falling in exhaustion, fatigue mercilessly dragging them down, slipping, failing to catch themselves, their hearts hammering with effort, struggling up and on, the wind tearing at them, their warmth fled from them, their energy all but gone.

And for perhaps the hundredth time in a mile Elyn collapsed, falling in the thigh-deep snow, yet this time she did not rise again. Thork stumbled back unto her, and managed to get her upon the withers of Wind, the horse trembling with fatigue.

Back he turned, leading both steeds upward, struggling onward in what he now deemed to be a hopeless cause, yet his stubborn Châk pride would not let him surrender. Upward another mile or so they struggled, taking forever, and then Wind fell, the grey whelming down into the snow, unconscious Elyn pinned beneath.

Weary beyond measure, Thork managed to free her, dragging her from under the downed horse. Swiftly Thork examined the motionless Princess, and nought seemed broken. And then he tried to get the mare to her feet, but Wind was dead, slain by a blizzard, the grey’s valiant heart bursted by a struggle beyond her endurance.

Placing Elyn across the back of Digger, Thork plodded onward, toiling upward, laborious step upon laborious step, chilled beyond measure. Yet forward he went. And the yawling, hammering wind shoved and pounded and mauled him, and ice slashed across his path, and snow barred his way, yet into the screaming blast he pressed, a furlong and then another, fighting for what seemed like hours. And then the pony fell and lay in the snow, its breath coming in grunting gasps.

Again Thork pulled the Princess free. And then he crawled upon hands and knees to Digger’s head, and standing, the Dwarf tried to get the pony to its feet. Yet Thork had not the strength to do so, and he fell back into the snow, Digger’s head in his lap. Ten, fifteen more breaths the pony drew, and then, with a sigh, stopped. And even as Thork watched, the great soft brown eyes glazed over. And in the shrieking, yammering wind, Thork reached out a gnarled hand and scratched the little faithful steed one last time between the ears, and then turned back to the Princess.

Struggling, snow and ice blasting into him, Thork managed to hoist Elyn across his shoulders, and stumbled upward, fighting onward, his mind dazed by a fatigue beyond reckoning. Yet on he went, and the yowling night raged about him, howling, yawling, yammering.

Time and again, Thork fell, each fall taking an immeasurable toll. Yet each time the Dwarf managed to gain his feet and hoist Elyn up again. No longer did he know his goal; no longer did he know why he strove to ascend the slopes of this Mountain; no longer did he know that a blizzard raged across the range and thundered down upon him. The only thing that he knew was that he must go on, with Elyn, upward.

And still the snow hurled into him, the wind sucked at his diminishing heat, the ice stung his unseeing eyes. The buffeting, pummeling shriek knocked him down time and again, and he would get to his feet, each time more slowly, gather up Elyn, and go on yet once more. And his world was filled with nought but screamings and yawlings of the blast.

Yet in the yammering of the storm he seemed to hear a voice calling. Sounding out his name. Was it his father? Urging him on? This way, son. This way. And, his breath sobbing in great gasps, his vision blurred, his legs but barely under his control, pressed to his uttermost, he pushed onward, his progress measured in yards, in feet, in steps. This way, son.

“Yes, Father, I am coming!” he called out, his sobbing words whipped into the night by the wind.

And the hurtling ice and raging shriek slammed at him and tried to hold him back, and hip-deep snow clutched at his legs and feet like a massive hand barring his way; yet Thork, son of Brak, DelfLord of all of Kachar, struggled forward, his breath rasping outward in blasts of white vapor, his beard laden with the crystalline ice of its freezing. And Elyn was a forgotten burden across his shoulders, yet a burden nonetheless; and he reeled and staggered and lost his footing to fall at last before a carven iron gate in a hidden fold of land.

And the blizzard hammered down upon his still form, clawing at his unmoving figure, tearing at his winter cloak, trying to rend the scant protection from him.

Finally, the Dwarf moved, struggling up to his knees, slumping back to a sitting position, leaning sideways against the iron portal. And underneath the howl of the wind, an eddying moan seemed to call: My son. My son.

His mind a maze, Thork looked up uncomprehendingly, not seeing at first. But then perhaps by instinct alone, he pulled himself to his feet, using the great studs riveted into the metal to do so. And he peered across the expanse of iron, but no door-ring, no handle did he see; yet even had there been one, he would not have had the wherewithal to comprehend its use. And the raging wind howled down into the fold of land where he had gotten to, and its frigid blast mauled him.

My axe, my hammer, I will whelm upon the door, knock for entrance. But neither weapon was at hand, lying buried in the snow somewhere behind, buried with all their goods, buried with Digger, buried with Wind.

Thork hammered upon the gate with the butt of his fist, yet he had no strength and made no impression.

“Father, let me in,” he cried, weeping, leaning against the metal, clutching at the studs, pounding ineffectually upon the cold iron. “In the name of Adon and Elwydd, Father, let me in.”

At the invocation of the Allfather’s name the portal began to open outward, soft yellow light streaming forth through the widening crack and out into the ravaging wind and hurling ice.

Thork staggered backwards, falling, sprawling in the snow, barely conscious, the wind-shattered amber luminance scattering over him. Groaning, Thork rolled over and lay with his face pressed into the cold whiteness. And the wind howled in fury. Finally, he managed to get to his hands and knees. Yet he did not know what to do, nor did he even know where he was. But at last he began to crawl forward, toward the light.

Yet wait! Something was. . wrong, but his fatigue-’wildered mind could not fathom its nature. Blearily, his eyes swept right and left. And there at hand lying in the snow was a female, a Human, her red hair splayed about pallid features, a wind-driven drift even now spilling across her inanimate body, burying its victim. Elyn!

Thork crawled to her unmoving form, and after a seemingly endless time he forced himself to stand, trembling with exhaustion beyond all accounting. With an unimaginable effort, he managed to scoop her up-reaching the very last limit of his strength. Turning, reeling, he staggered toward the light, gasping and sobbing in the extremity his struggle, bearing a Princess, noting the whiteness of her face, the blueness of her lips. And agonized words moaned out past his labored rasping-“Don’t die, my Summer Queen, don’t die”-as Thork, on the verge of foundering, tottered forward, faltering step after faltering step, lurching, stumbling, until at last he reeled into the chamber within, staggering sideways to fetch up against a marble wall where he collapsed into total oblivion.

And behind, the great iron door began to swing shut; and the blizzard raged and the wind shrieked and ice hurtled against the closing portal. Yet the gate swung to Boom! leaving the Hèlspawned storm to howl and yawl and whelm upon the great shut door, as if it were a vast amorphous creature shrieking for entry, a squalling demand that would not be met.

And in the very moment of the portal’s closing, in a dark fortress to the north, the invisible aura of a hammer, of a warhammer, of the Kammerling ceased to pulse, for even that mighty token of power could not sense aught within the warded Wizardholt of Xian.