Dragondoom

CHAPTER 3

Spring, 3E1601

[Last Year]

Down from the Steppes of Jord they came, forty strong. They were proud, and hard, and they rode upon swift, fiery steeds, for they were Vanadurin, these fair-haired Men. Grim were their visages, and resolute, and their flinty eyes swept outward, scouring the land, for they were on a mission of daring and danger.

Down o’er the shield rock they fared in a column of twos, steel-shod hooves hammering upon the glacial stone. Sabers, long-knives, bows and arrows, spear-lances, all were scabbarded for the long-ride, though each would easily come to hand should the need arise. Steel helms the Men wore, dark and glintless, yet bearing gauds of horsehair and horns and wings flaring. Fleece vests covered chain-link shirts, and long cloaks were wrapped ’round, to ward the icy chill of a thin dawn mist flowing up from the distant shrouded ocean and over the sheer seawall cliffs and out upon this high stark land of stone.

In the fore on a jet-black steed rode a copper-haired, green-eyed warrior, a youth who had come into his manhood but seven summers past-yet he was Captain of this band, though his helm was adorned by nought. At his side rode a grizzled veteran, a grey frosting upon his flaxen locks, and dark raven’s wings spread back from the steel of his cap. ’Twas Elgo, the youth, and Ruric, his Lieutenant; and behind came thirty-eight more of the fair Harlingar. They were bound for Skaldfjord upon the Boreal Sea.

It was early spring of the year 3E1601, a time when the Vanadurin still dwelt in the northern realms, in Jord, their Wanderjahr yet to come, centuries removed, when they would wrest the great grassy plains of Valon from the Usurper in Caer Pendwyr. Many would leave the Jordreichs then, when the War of the Usurper was done. And they would settle at last far to the south upon the wide sweep of that green Land, consecrated by the blood of their dead, a Realm the rightful High King would award to the Harlingar for their part in overthrowing the foul Pretender.

But that was yet to be, some four hundred years hence; and in the time of this telling, all Vanadurin still roamed the high Jordian Steppes, where the soft summers were green and flowering and full of light and warmth in the long, long days; while the harsh winters were ice and wind and strange shifting colors draped in curtains of werelight high in the auroral night.

But now it was spring, when the blood stirs, and spirits surge, and Men set forth to do those things planned in the long frigid tides of darkness.

Such was the case with Elgo. And he had gathered a Warband of forty Harlingar eager to help him, though but thirty-nine now rode at hand, for one had gone ahead.

Tall and proud he was, and a Prince of the Realm, for he was King Aranor’s only son and would be next to lead the Harlingar. Yet Elgo was not content to stay at Court, tending to the tedious affairs of State. Nay, like his sire before him, Elgo the youth was a Man of action: why, it was not but two spring seasons agone that Prince Elgo, acting alone upon his winter-conceived plan, by stealth and cunning and sheer bravery, single-handedly slew Golga, cruel Ogru of Kaagor Pass, a long, strait, plumb-walled notch high in the Grimwalls. And the death of this great Troll had made that tradeway safe once more.

And ere that feat there were other bold ventures-such as the time the Prince and a sparse few routed the Naudron interlopers back across the eastern marge, back into their own icy Realm; or the three-day chase across the highfjelt in pursuit of Flame, the red stallion, trapping the great stud at last in the blue waters of Skymere; or the day Elgo stole beautiful Arianne from under the very nose of Hagor, bearing the fair maiden home upon the withers of Shade to become his bride.

Yet, alone, these deeds or others of Elgo’s derring-do are not what drew Men to his banner, nor did they come because he was Aranor’s son; instead it was because the Prince was a canny leader, as well as being a mighty warrior-in spite of his youth, in spite of his rash pride. . or perhaps because of it-and where he went there was adventure.

And now Elgo had another plan.

And this time he was after Dracongield!

As the morning aged, the wan mist fled before the rising Sun. And the riders came at last to the high windblown brow of the craggy sea-cliffs. Below, the ocean boomed against ancient rock, hurling sand and salt and wave upon the adamant foe, advancing but grain by grain in the endless strife, imperceptibly gaining along this front; while at distant elsewheres, along abyssal rifts, molten magma spewed forth from the guts of the world, and just as imperceptibly, new land slowly crept up from out of the darkling depths as the eternal struggle for dominion went on.

North along this one front of the ceaseless elemental War turned the column, the Men hearing but not heeding the great battle below.

Two more hours the Harlingar coursed northward, finally coming to a narrow inlet trapped between steep-walled, fir-laden cliffs. It was Skaldfjord: deep, crystalline Skaldfjord. Like a monstrous stroke from some great giant’s axe, the fjord clove down through the stony land and far into the ocean floor, icy flux from the Boreal Sea rushing in to fill the dark chasm. Although the waters of Skaldfjord were crystalline, they were so deep as to take on the aspect of black. And the great notch went slashing through the land to the east ere curving away north, the chill ebon waters passing from view beyond the bend; and this way along the lofty rim went the Men.

As they rounded the high turn at last, far before them and down at the water’s edge they could see a small fjordside settlement: dwellings huddled together behind a pine palisade be-ringing all.

When the fortified hamlet came into view, Elgo raised his hand, and the column juddered to a halt, horses blowing, leather creaking. And long the Vanadurin sat and looked.

Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys here and there, and movement could be glimpsed among the buildings afar.

Yet it was not the village alone that drew upon their eyes, for tethered to shoreline pilings rode four Dragonships, their great lengths made small by the distance. There, too, were moored three deep-sea knorrs, the cargo vessels dwarfed by their sleek-flanked neighbors. And here and there rode fishing boats, bobbing about like corks.

Signalling the Men to dismount, Elgo gathered the warriors close about him. And he spoke to them in Valur, the ancient Battle-tongue of the Harlingar, his voice quiet, yet all could hear him.

“[Harlingar, ot i markere fram. .] Sons of Harl, from this point onward we will say nought of our mission, for idle ears could overhear-ears that may ken the talk of even the Vanadurin. And should unforeseen disaster befall us, then our plans would be in the grasping hands of these others, and the treasure we seek, lost.

“Yon stands our first goal: Skaldfjordstad. You can see that Reynor has met his task, for the Dragonships below are to bear us to the shores of that far Land where lies our distant aim. These ships will be crewed by Fjordsmen-they know the ways of the sea, whereas we do not. Yet even these staunch allies are not to be taken into our counsel, for it is said that the curse of Dracongield acts in strange ways upon the hearts of Men.

“Heed! Henceforth, remain silent concerning our quest. If it becomes vital to speak of it, speak only in Valur, for it is a tongue known to but a few not of Strong Harl’s blood-and even then couch your words most cryptically.”

Elgo’s eyes swept across those of his Men, and resolute eyes returned his gaze, for none would have the prize fall into hands other than those of the Vanadurin.

Elgo nodded to Ruric, and at the greyling warrior’s sharp command all remounted, and the column spurred toward the distant village. Yet a solitary thought spun over and again through Ruric’s mind: If the curse o’ Dracongield acts in strange ways upon the hearts of Men, my proud Prince, what then will it do to each o’ us?

As they rode down a steeply canted path wending through the pine-shrouded fjordwall, there came from below the flat-pitched sound of a black-oxen horn: Ta-roo! Ta-roo! Tan-tan, ta-roo! [All is clear! All is clear! Horsemen and allies, the way is clear!]

At this call Elgo raised his own dark horn to his lips. Ra-tan-ta! [I answer!]

On down the path they rode, soon breaking free of the trees, coming at last to the open area standing before the thorp, the land cleared as a defense against skulking raiders.

Elgo reined Shade to a halt, the black obeying instantly. And all of the Vanadurin spread wide and stopped as well, flanking their Prince, with Ruric at Elgo’s side, all weapons remaining scabbarded.

Out from the shadows of the palisades rode young Reynor upon a bay, and as he neared, it could be seen that his blue eyes sparkled, and a great smile split his features.

“Hál, my Prince!” cried the blond youth, but a year younger than Elgo’s own scant twenty-two summers. “The stad awaits your pleasure!” And he turned and signalled to the sentries along the walls.

As the column of Harlingar rode in through the open wooden gates, Elgo could see that the town entire had assembled to see this visiting Prince. Yet here and there among these fisherfolk his eyes also saw the harder visages of others, of warriors, of Dragonship crews. Fjordsmen were they all, yet some drew their living from the sea, while others plied the sea for their living.

The Fjordsmen’s hair and beards were yellow and copper and red, and their skin was fair, or ruddy-and some sported great wide moustachios. Flaxen and honey and auburn tresses adorned the women, and they bore pale complexions, and some were freckled. And everywhere, clear blue eyes looked forth upon the riders.

A fair Folk were they, and in this they were like unto the Vanadurin; but this did not surprise Elgo, for it was said that Fjordsmen and Harlingar had sprung from the same root. Yet one Folk took to the sea in ships, while the other roamed ahorse the seas of grass.

Reynor led the column to the stadholl, a great sod-covered longhouse in the center of the hamlet. And there on the wooden steps awaiting the Prince were the village elders, as well as the captains of the Dragonships.

The formal greeting had been short, but hearty; and the feasting that followed, most welcomed by Elgo and his Men, for they had been many days in the saddle, and field rations grow weary to the tongue.

Roast pig there was and fish, and fresh baked bread, as well as a thick vegetable stew. Horns of ale and honeyed mead flowed freely, and ship’s skalds sang of the heroes of elden days. And Elgo’s viridian eyes lighted up to hear of such Men, and of their deeds. And early during the fest, one poet sang the lay of Sleeth the Orm and the Taking of the Treasure of Blackstone. And during the telling it was hard for the Vanadurin to maintain a pose of polite interest; and a silence fell upon them, and they looked everywhere but at one another; yet none of the Fjordsmen seemed to take note of their studied nonchalance. But the moment passed when the tale came to an end, and another bard took up the bawdy ode of Snorri, Borri’s Son, and the Mystical Maid of the Maelstrom, the Harlingar singing lustily with all the rest.

Mead and bread and pig and fish and ale and stew were each consumed in prodigious quantities, and thralls rushed thither and yon to replenish emptied platters and depleted pots and drained pitchers. And night fell as the feast went on, but still the singing continued. Yet even the young must rest at last, and so they did: Some fell asleep in their platters, while others curled up on the floor; still others found a willing maid, and where they went it is not told. And there were those who left the stadholl to sleep in places prepared for them, and among these were Elgo and Ruric.

And as he drifted off into slumber, Ruric’s thoughts turned to Sleeth the Orm. And the Vanadurin Warrior’s mind strayed to a time apast when Elgo had first heard of the great Cold-drake’s taking of Blackstone, for in a manner of speaking, it was Ruric who had introduced the youngling to the tale.