Dragondoom

CHAPTER 8

Spring, 3E1594

[Eight Years Past]

“They say that she’s as quick as any of the boys, and “what she lacks in strength, she more than makes up with cleverness.” Needles popped and thread hissed through taut cloth as the Ladies of the Court considered Aldra’s remarks. As was often the case, their subject was Elyn, for even though she’d been at it for five years, still, the thought of anyone, much less a Princess, becoming a Warrior Maiden was a thing of wonder and daring to them all.

“’Tis said that none are quicker, save perhaps Elgo.” This comment was followed by a longing sigh, and the other Ladies knowingly glanced at one another, covertly smiling, for it was blatantly obvious to all how young Jenna felt about the brash Prince.

“Perhaps so, Jenna,” responded Aldra, “but at fifteen, they say that her prowess with weaponry equals or betters that of her peers.”

“Fifteen now, but soon to be sixteen: the marrying age.” Lissa’s voice took on a tone and demeanor that mimicked the absent Mala so well that the other Ladies broke out in smothered laughter.

Jenna sighed. “I wonder what it is like, being a Warrior Maiden.”

“Yelling and cursing,” replied Kyla, “that’s what it’s like. Have you not gone by the training grounds and heard Ruric roaring at them?”

At that moment, Mala stepped into the room, moving to take up her customary place at the needlepoint frame before the northern window; a momentary silence fell upon the group, for at least within her sewing circle the spinster aunt of Elyn forbade any discussion of Warrior Maidens. The subject was quickly changed, turning to what songs and tales the visiting bard might sing this night.

And out upon the training field Ruric smiled unto himself, for the Princess was weaving a swift attack upon the lad before her, forcing him back and back and ever back, the tip of her blade a whistling blur. Indeed it was true that what she gave away in strength, her finesse more than made up for. And quick? Ach, none were quicker, save perhaps Elgo.

Each and every day, the Armsmaster could see the skills of the twain honing fine.

Too, he also knew that their understanding of strategy and tactics grew as well, for they were canny. In this, Ruric believed that they would both surpass their sire.

Still, at times Ruric would loose a string of oaths, calling down the wrath of Gods, Wizards, and Dragons when a lackadaisical attitude on the part of the twins demanded it.

“-By the hoard o’ Sleeth, Elyn, do ye think a spear be only good for jabbing? Look at me, lass! A spear be good for stabbing thus wi’ the tine, cutting and slashing wi’ the edge, warding and knocking wi’ the shaft as a quarterstave, and hurling the whole o’ it as a thrown weapon! By the beasts o’ the Wolfmage, heed me: use yer cunning as well as yer skill, and for the foe at hand select the best attack, be it point, blade, stave, or missile.”

“-Adon’s own blood, Elgo, what do ye think the sharp tip o’ a saber be for? Aye, hacking and slashing be a mighty offense, at times cleaving the very armor o’ the foe, but why this ceaseless bashing, lad, when a well-placed thrust will swiftly end it? Sleeth’s spit, boy, when the chance presents itself, skewer the enemy: run him through!”

“-By the great Drake, Kalgalath, ye two, couch yer spears thus when lancing from horseback! And watch the foe’s own weapon, else ye’ll ha’e your heads bashed in, or worse. Now bring yer skill to bear in the next pass.”

But for the most part, Ruric was well pleased, for even though he castigated them at times, praise more often fell from his lips.

Elyn stepped quickly into the great hall, taking her place at the head table. She was dressed in her warrior’s leathers, Mala refusing to look at her. Yet Elyn’s heart was light, and she did not even note her aunt’s disapproval, having become accustomed to it.

The hall buzzed, and every seat was taken. Trent the Bard was to sing again this night, his last, for on the morrow he would depart for Aven in the company of Aranor’s retinue, and none wished to miss this, the final eve of tellings and sayings and singings. It was rare that bards came to Aranor’s court, bearing important news and delicious gossip as well as enduring legend, for the Steppes of Jord are remote and wide. It was an untamed Land of small villages and isolated dwellings and drifting campsites, its population scattered o’er the rolling plains, tending horses, raising grain, hunting the beasts of the wold-not like the civilized Realms to the south, where bards and minstrels are plentiful, as well as other artists, where culture reigns supreme, as Mala reminded everyone.

Throughout the meal, talk was rather sparse, for all wanted to hear Trent once more. Even Aranor’s upcoming departure to visit Aven was spoken of only in terse terms, though it was to seal a final trade agreement that would mean much to the Kingdom: fine horses in exchange for arms, armor, and other manufactured goods, including silken cloth, spun from the webs of worms, some claimed.

And the King was to be accompanied by a large Warband, for of recent the roads to Aven were unsafe, especially at night when the Foul Folk were free of the Ban.

And this armed escort would provide safe passage for Trent as well. Hence, this was his last night to perform.

The meal done, at Aranor’s behest Trent took up station, before the King’s table and to the right, his back to a stone column. Dressed in blue, his white hair shone argent in the lantern light, his clean-shaven countenance fair to look upon, belying his fifty-nine years. His fingers fell upon the harpstrings, a silvery glissade of notes slid through the air, hanging like a loom upon which to spin a tale. And as the echoes died, all fell silent, awaiting his words.

When he saw that he had the eye of everyone, slowly, Trent stepped across the stone floor until he stood directly before Elgo, not looking explicitly at the redheaded youth, but instead addressing the King: “I’ve had a request from a young green-eyed copper-haired warrior”-the bard’s resonant voice filled the hall-“who shall remain nameless”-there was not one in the hall who did not know that it was Elgo to whom Trent referred-“who says that his Armsmaster”-the Bard swung ’round to stare directly at Ruric-“turns the very air blue with oaths of Gods and Drakes and Wizards and snakes.” Now there was a great smile upon Trent’s face, and all in the hall returned it, except perhaps Ruric, whose false look of innocence fooled no one, and Elgo, who maintained an appearance of studied aloofness, and, of course, Mala, who never seemed to smile.

“This young warrior, hearking unto his teacher’s oaths”-once more Trent addressed the King-“asked for the tale of Sleeth’s Rape of Blackstone, no doubt preparing to slay the beast. . a hero in the making.” At these words the hall erupted in laughter, and Elgo’s face flushed in sudden anger, and he would have risen, except that Elyn placed a restraining hand upon his arm, silently urging him to bide his time.

Now Trent began to sing, and in spite of his ire, Elgo was caught up in the tale, his rage diminishing before the words of the saga.

Down from the sky he came,

A great roaring beast.

And he fell upon the Dwarves in fury,

Slaying left and right.

Down he came,

Among the Stone Folk,

His great wings thrashing

To their ruin.

Death he spat

’Tween his fangs,

Burning stone and metal alike,

As well as the bold and the brave.

And none could withstand him

In his might,

His claws slashing and slaying,

E’en the young and helpless.

Brave were the Dwarven fighters,

Forming into bands,

Rushing unto their Destinies,

Defending a Realm of dead stone.

Swift were their axes,

To no avail,

For Dragon armor

Scaled his sides.

And they perished,

Those that were not fled into the night.

And their dead stone Realm

Drank life’s coursing blood.

Ere the night was done

The great Cold-drake had won Blackstone,

Rending the gates asunder

As he slithered inside.

Sleeth took that which was not his,

And now sleeps upon a mountain of treasure,

A bed of stolen gold,

Dreaming of this deed he has done.

It was the Jewel of Dwarvenholts

Sleeth took upon that night of slaughter,

Richest of their delvings,

This dead stone Realm.

Yet would you not die

Fighting for that which was yours,

Though nought but the cold grave await you

Should you fail?

Be it palace or cottage,

Or a hovel in the dirt,

Still it is precious,

To a given heart.

Thus a dead stone Realm to some

Is a precious Kingdom to others,

And worth yielding up a life

To defend.

Here, Trent silenced his harp and spoke in a soft voice, his words heard by all: “It is told that twice the Dwarves tried to regain their lost cavern, yet each time the Dragon’s might was too great for them, and at last they abandoned their dream, their hearts falling into sadness for a Realm lost forever.”

Now the Bard raised up his voice once more:

Would you fight to the death

For that which you love,

In a cause surely hopeless.

For that which you love?

When the Bard fell silent, a great quiet filled the hall, some eyes glimmering with tears, each in his secret heart trying to answer Trent’s last question.

The sayings and tellings and singings went on through the night, as wondrous Bardic tales filled the hall. Some brought great laughter; others, tears. Still there were those that filled brave hearts with fire; Elgo’s eyes burned brightly with these.

There were tales to fill the very soul to the brim with a longing for the times of legend; songs that brought a glitter to the eyes of a Warrior Maid; songs of the Wolfwood where beasts of the elden days once dwelled: High Eagles, White Harts, horned horses named Unicorn, Bears that once were Men. . the forest ruled o’er by great Silver Wolves-or mayhap the Wizard that ran with them-shunned by those who would do evil.

And there were those roundelays that all joined in to sing. But even these came to an end, and people-filled near to bursting with the argent echoes of Trent’s silver harp, as well as his treasured voice-at last took to their beds.