The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm

CHAPTER VII Deadfall

At long last, spring had come to Mount Arngor.

Eragon was outside the main hall, grubbing up roots from several plots of dirt along the edge of the surrounding forest. Once cleared, the plots would be planted with herbs, vegetables, berries, and other useful crops, including cardus weed for the dwarves and humans to smoke and fireweed to help dragons better digest their food.

He’d taken his shirt off and was enjoying the noonday sun on his skin. It was a welcome pleasure amid weather that was still often cold and cloudy. Saphira lounged nearby, basking on a bed of trampled grass. Before he started, she’d raked the plots with her claws to break up the soil, which made the work far easier.

With Eragon were several dwarves: two male, three female, all from Orik’s clan, the Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. As they worked, they laughed and sang in their language, and Eragon sang along with them as best he could. He had been trying to learn something of Dwarvish in his limited spare time. Also the Urgals’ even harsher tongue. As the ancient language had taught him, words were power. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, but either way, Eragon wanted to know and understand everything he could, both for his own benefit and the benefit of those he was now responsible for.

A memory came to him then: He was standing in a small meadow near the outskirts of Ellesméra, surrounded by the pine trees sung into graceful shapes by the elves. A treasure trove of flowers lay before him, growing in flowing patterns within that grassy oasis amid the shadowed forest. Bees hummed among the profusion of blossoms, and butterflies flitted about the clearing, like petals given flight. Beneath him, his shadow was that of a dragon, flecked with the refracted light from his ruddy scales.

And all was right. And all was good.

Eragon shook himself as he returned to the present. Drops of sweat flew from his face. Ever since the Eldunarí had opened their minds and shared their memories with him, he had been experiencing flashes of recollection not his own. The bursts were disorienting, both on account of their unexpectedness and because he had grasped only a small part of the great storehouse of knowledge now packed into his head. To fully master it would be the task of a lifetime.

That was okay. Learning was one of Eragon’s chief pleasures, and he still had so much to learn about history, Alagaësia, the dragons, and life in general.

That particular memory had come from a dragon named Ivarros, who—as Eragon thought back—had lost his body in an unseasonably strong thunderstorm before the fall of the Riders.

The images from outside Ellesméra caused Eragon to pause and remember his own time in the elven city. A slight twinge of heartsickness formed in his chest as he thought of Arya, now queen of her people in the ancient forest of Du Weldenvarden. They had spoken several times through the scrying mirrors he kept in the hold’s eyrie, but both he and she were busy with their duties, and their conversations had been few and far between.

Saphira eyed him from underneath hooded lids. Then she snorted, sending a small puff of smoke rolling across the ground.

Eragon smiled and hoisted his pick overhead again. Life was good. Winter had broken. The main hall was finished, with the roof now sealed. More chambers were nearing completion. Three of the formerly mad Eldunarí had been moved from the caves below into the Hall of Colors, as a direct result of Elva applying her particular talents.

The girl and the herbalist and the werecat had departed two weeks previously. While Eragon was not sorry to see them go—their presence was always somewhat disquieting—he was proud of the time he’d spent with Elva. He had worked with the girl every day since her arrival, training her as Brom and Oromis had trained him. She had also spent long hours with Saphira, Glaedr, and several of the other—sane—dragons. By the time she and Angela departed, Eragon could already see a change in her attitude. Elva had appeared calmer and more relaxed, and some of the sting had dissipated from her responses.

Eragon just hoped the improvements would stick.

When he’d asked where they intended to go, Angela said, “Oh, to some distant shore, I should think. A place nice and isolated, where we don’t have to worry about unwelcome surprises.”

Over the past few months, Eragon had done his best to ferret out more answers from the herbalist—on a range of subjects—but he might as well have tried to cut through a wall of granite with a twig. She deflected and dissembled and otherwise stymied his efforts with perfect success. The one new thing he had learned was the story of how she and Solembum had first met—and that had made for a most entertaining evening indeed.

A strip of pink amid the overturned soil caught Eragon’s attention. He lowered his pick and crouched down to see a long, banded earthworm feeling its way across the clumps of fragrant earth.

“Here now,” he said, feeling sorry for having disturbed the worm’s home. He put his hand in front of the worm and allowed it to crawl onto his palm. Then he lifted the worm out of the plot, carried it a few feet away, and set it down near a clump of dry grass, where it might burrow back into the ground.

Shouts rang out from within the main hall: “Ebrithil! Ebrithil!” The elf Ästrith emerged from the shadowed doorway, covered in dirt and dust, a bloody scrape along her right forearm and a strained expression on her face.

The nape of Eragon’s neck prickled, old instincts taking hold. He sprinted back to the plot, grabbed the pick, and ran to Ästrith even as she said, “The tunnel we were working in collapsed. Two of—”

“Which tunnel?” Eragon asked, hurrying into the hall with her. Behind them, Saphira heaved herself to her feet and lumbered after.

“On the lowest level. The dwarves were trying to reopen a branch tunnel they found yesterday. The ceiling gave way, and two of them are trapped beneath the stones.”

“Did you tell Blödhgarm?”

“He will meet us there.”

Eragon grunted.

Together, they crossed the main hall and hurried down the stairs and through the door that granted access to the mining tunnels beneath the hold. As the cold underground air hit his skin, Eragon regretted not pausing to grab his shirt. Oh well.

For a few silent minutes, they hurried through the switchback tunnels, descending ever deeper into the side of Mount Arngor. Lanterns had been hung on the walls at regular, but sparse, intervals, and the shadows pooled thick and heavy between them.

In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira keeping close watch. She said, How can I help? He could sense her frustration; the tunnels were too small for a grown dragon like her.

Just stand ready. I may need your strength.

As he and Ästrith neared the lower depths of the old mine, angry voices sounded ahead of them, echoing off the bare stone in a confusing chorus. A cloud of dust still clogged the air near the collapsed section, and three separate werelights hung near the ceiling, providing additional—if unsteady—illumination.

Four dwarves emerged from the haze; Eragon recognized them all. They had been digging through the rubble, stacking the broken pieces of rock on either side of the tunnel as they attempted to excavate their buried brethren.

Ästrith pointed at a huge slab of stone that lay across the narrow passageway. Several cracks, straight as an arrow, had split the slab into sections. She said, “I broke the rock, Ebrithil, so as to lift the pieces away, but if even one part is removed, the rest will settle farther, and I am not strong enough to hold all of them at once.”

The lead dwarf—a thick-bearded fellow by the name of Drûmgar—nodded. “She is right, Jurgencarmeitder. We need your help, and the help of the dragons.”

Eragon placed his pick against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. Reaching out with his mind, he searched for the buried dwarves….There. Several feet ahead of him, a single consciousness, faint and faltering, like a candle in the wind.

Hadn’t there been two dwarves trapped in the cave-in?

Eragon didn’t dare wait any longer. He could feel the life ebbing from the one dwarf. “Stand clear,” he said.

Ästrith and the dwarves hurried back. Then Eragon drew upon his connection with Saphira—and through her, upon the Eldunarí in the Hall of Colors—and he spoke a single word of power: “Rïsa.”

The word was simple, but his intent was not, and it was intent that guided the execution of a spell.

Creaks and groans and shivering screeches rang out through the tunnel as the pile of fallen stone lifted off the ground. The cost in energy was immediate and immense; if not for the strength of the dragons, Eragon would have passed out and lost control of the spell.

Billows of fresh dust choked the air as Eragon pressed the stones back into the broken ceiling. He coughed, despite himself, and then said, “Melthna.”

At his magic-borne command, all the stones he held suspended flowed together, rejoining the surrounding walls, welding themselves back to the bones of Mount Arngor. A pulse of heat—hot enough to make Eragon’s cheeks sting and to singe the hairs on his chest—emanated from the now-solid casing of rocks.

He let out the breath he’d been holding and ended the spell. Thank you, he said to Saphira and, by extension, the Eldunarí.

As the dust settled, the wavering illumination of the werelights revealed the crumpled forms of the two dwarves lying in the tunnel ahead. Smears of blood surrounded them.

Drûmgar and the rest of the dwarves rushed toward their fallen compatriots. Eragon followed more slowly, still feeling the effects of the weirding he had wrought.

Then the dwarves groaned and began to pull at their beards and hair as they filled the mine with their lamentations. Eragon’s heart sank at the sound. Again he reached out with his mind, searching for any sign of life in the two broken bodies.

Nothing. Both were dead.

Fast as he’d been, he had still failed to save them. Eragon dropped to his knees, blinking back a sudden upwelling of tears. The names of the two dwarves were Nál and Brimling, and although Eragon hadn’t known them well, he’d seen them about the fire on many a late evening, and they had always been quick with a song or a joke and generally full of good cheer.

Ästrith put a hand on his shoulder, but it was a small comfort.

Eragon bent his head and let the tears fall free. For all the spells he had learned and powers he had gained since becoming a Dragon Rider—and for all the strength of the dragons—some things were still beyond him.

He could lift staggering amounts of stone with a word, but he couldn’t turn aside death. No one could.

—

The rest of the day passed in a grey blur. The dwarves took their dead to straighten their limbs, wash their bodies, dress them in fine garments, oil their beards, and otherwise prepare them for interment in tombs of stone, as was the custom of their people.

Eragon helped Blödhgarm—who had arrived late to the tunnels—and Ästrith further secure that branch of the mine, so as to prevent any future collapses. Then, heartsore and tired, he retreated to the eyrie and cast himself down next to Saphira for a restless hour of sleep.

He still felt grim, glum, and out of joint when evening arrived. The elves attempted to console him with various high-minded phrases, but their dispassionate reasoning did little to improve his outlook. Nor were the few other humans—including Nasuada’s personal envoy, one Marleth Oddsford—in any better mood. Most of them had labored hard alongside the dwarves throughout the winter, and the loss of Nál and Brimling had affected them even more than Eragon.

Yet Eragon did not forget his station. He did his duty and walked among the saddened dwarves, murmuring words of encouragement and comfort. Both Hruthmund and Drûmgar thanked him, and he promised he would attend the funerals the next day.

As the night wore on, Eragon found himself drawn to the hearth where the Urgals were gathered. They were loud and boisterous, and though they had no love for the dwarves, their leader, Skarghaz, raised his cup in honor of Nál and Brimling, and as a group, the Urgals let loose with a roar that rivaled Saphira’s.

Later still, when the others had retired, Eragon remained with the Urgals, drinking rekk—which the Urgals made from fermented cattails—while Saphira slumbered in the corner.

“Rider!” boomed Skarghaz. “You are too sad.” He was a broad, slump-shouldered Kull with long hair that he wore in a braid down his bare back. Even in the depths of winter, he rarely deigned to put on more than a crude vest.

Eragon wasn’t inclined to argue. “You are not wrong,” he said, overpronouncing his words.

The massive Kull took a swig of rekk from his equally massive cup. Then he beckoned toward another of the Urgals: a stout, somewhat potbellied Urgal with a long red scar that slashed sideways across his face. “Irsk! Tell our Rider a story to settle his liver. Tell him a story of the old times.”

“In this tongue?” Irsk replied. He grimaced, baring his fangs.

“Yes, in this tongue, drajl!” roared Skarghaz. And he tossed an empty cask of rekk at the smaller Urgal.

The cask bounced off Irsk’s horns. He didn’t duck or flinch, only grunted and lowered himself onto the stone floor in front of the fire. “Give me a drum, then.”

At Skarghaz’s order, one of the Urgals ran off to their quarters and soon returned carrying a small hide drum. Irsk set it between his legs and then paused for a moment with his thick-fingered hands resting atop the hide. He said, “I must change the words of the Urgralgra to those of your kind, Rider. They will not sound as they should, though I have studied how you speak for nigh on three winters now.”

“I’m sure you will do just fine,” said Eragon. He had already noticed that Irsk was more well-spoken than his fellow Urgals, and Eragon wondered if it was because Irsk had training as a bard or poet. He straightened in his chair and leaned forward, curious to hear what would come forth from the Urgal.

In the corner, Saphira cracked open her near eye to reveal a slit of gleaming blue.

Skarghaz pounded the base of his cup against his leg, splashing rekk across the floor. “Enough slowness, Irsk! Tell the story. Tell the one of great Kulkaras.”

Again, Irsk grunted. He lowered his chin for a moment and then struck the drum a single echoing blow and began to speak.

Despite the roughness of the Urgal’s words, there was a truth to them Eragon recognized. And as he listened, he felt transported to another time and place, and the events of Irsk’s tale soon seemed as real as the hall itself.

CHAPTER VIII The Worm of Kulkaras

The day the dragon arrived was a day of death.

He came from the north, a shadow upon the wind. Soft and silent, he swept across the valley, blotting out the sun with his velvet wings. Where he landed, field and forest went up in flame, drifts of ash choked the streams, beasts fled—and Horned also—and the sounds of grief and terror rent the summer air.

The dragon was named Vêrmund the Grim, and he was an old and cruel dragon, canny in the ways of the world. Word of him had come from the north, but never had there been a hint or warning that he had forsaken his lair in those frozen, far-off reaches.

And yet there he was. Black as charred bone, with a polished gleam to his fitted scales and a throat packed full of fire.

The youngling, Ilgra, watched with her friends from beside the spring-fed pool where they so often swam, high in the foothills along the eastern side of the valley. From that vantage, she saw the dragon ravage their farms with fire and claw and the sweep of his jagged tail. When the warriors of Clan Skgaro attacked—attacked with bow and spear and ax—Vêrmund’s flame consumed them or else he trod upon them and thus made an end to their ambitions. Even the sharpest blade could not pierce his hide, and the Skgaro had no spellcasters to aid them in battle. As such, they found themselves at the mercy of the dragon, able only to annoy or inconvenience him, but not to stop him. Never that.

Like the evil worm he was, Vêrmund ate every person who came within his reach: male and female, elder and youngling alike. None were spared. Their livestock too he ate, corralled them with fences of fire and feasted upon the helpless animals until his chops were clotted with gore and the ground a crimson shambles.

All that and more Ilgra saw. She could do nothing to help, so she stayed by the pool, though to wait hurt as much as any wound. Those of her friends who weren’t so wise ran to join the fray, and of their number, many were lost.

As the dragon approached the hall of her family, Ilgra bared her teeth in a helpless snarl. Closer it came, and then closer still, and then with a slow-moving swipe, the scaled monster crushed her home.

A howl tore from Ilgra’s throat, and she sank to her knees and grasped the tips of her horns.

Relief tempered her anguish as she saw her mother scramble free of the wreckage and, with her, Ilgra’s younger sister, Yhana. But it was a fleeting relief, for Vêrmund’s head descended toward them, his heated maw parted.

From across the fields came sprinting Ilgra’s father, spear held high. The lightness of hope filled her heart. Her father was first among the Anointed. Few there were who could match his might, and though he was small compared with the dragon, she knew his courage was equal to that of the gods’. Four winters ago, a hungry cave bear had come prowling down from the mountains, and her father had faced it with nothing more than a knife in one hand and a cudgel in the other. And he had slain the bear, killing it with a slash to the flank and a hard blow to the head.

The skull of the beast had hung over their hearth ever since.

Of everyone in Clan Skgaro, Ilgra felt sure he could stop Vêrmund the Grim.

Even through the tumult, Ilgra heard her father shout challenges at the dreadful dragon and curses too. With slithering quickness, Vêrmund turned to face him. Undaunted, her father darted past the worm’s plow-shaped chin and drove his spear at a gap between the scales on Vêrmund’s plated neck.

The blade missed, and a sound as of metal striking stone reached Ilgra from the valley floor.

Chills of mortal fear crawled along her limbs as Vêrmund uttered a thunderous chuckle, strong enough to shake the earth. The dragon’s amusement angered her, and she gnashed her teeth, outraged. How dare it laugh at their misery!

To the last a warrior, her father loosed a cry and ran between Vêrmund’s legs, where it was difficult for the dragon to reach.

But the creature reared back and filled the mighty bellows of his lungs, and Ilgra howled again as a torrent of blue-fringed fire engulfed her father.

Then the heaviness of despair crushed Ilgra’s heart, and tears welled from her eyes.

Her father’s sacrifice was not in vain, though. While he had distracted Vêrmund, her mother and sister fled the dragon, and by the blessing of Rahna the Huntress, Vêrmund showed no interest in following but concentrated instead upon their herds.

With all the clan dead or scattered, Vêrmund was free to feast at his leisure. Ilgra remained sitting on the ground, and she wept as she watched. Survivors joined her in ragged groups, their clothes scorched and torn, and some bearing fearsome wounds. Together, they huddled behind rock and ridge, silent as rabbits before a seeking snake.

Fires spread across the valley. Ranks of trees—gnarled old pines hundreds of feet tall—exploded in pillars of orange and yellow. The sound echoed among the peaks. Tails of twisting embers streamed skyward as the inferno climbed the flanks of the mountains. Billows of smoke fouled the air, and ash fell thick as snow until a false twilight blanketed the valley, a dark shroud of destruction heavy with grief, bitter with anger.

Vêrmund gorged himself upon their sheep and goats and pigs until his belly hung round and firm, pregnant with his gluttony. When finally he was sated, the dragon hove himself into the dismal sky.

He flew no great distance, though; whether because of his belly or because livestock yet remained to eat, Ilgra knew not. But the murderous old worm traveled no farther than the head of the valley. There he alighted upon the tallest mountain: high, snow-clad Kulkaras. He wrapped himself about its jagged peak, tucked his snout under his tail, and with a final, fiery sigh, closed his eyes. Thus he slept, and while he slept, he stirred no more.

Ilgra stared through the smoke toward his dark and distant bulk: a pestilential tumor mounted atop Kulkaras. As the cold constriction of hate tightened round her heart, Ilgra swore the most terrible oath she knew, for she had but one purpose now—

To kill Vêrmund the Grim. To kill the worm of Kulkaras.

When last they deemed it safe, those who remained of Clan Skgaro gathered in the south of the valley, at the hall of Zhar, who tended the fish traps. Ilgra sat in a shadowed corner of the hall, chewing on her silence while the circle of old dams, the Herndall, debated what best to do. First they chose a warchief from among the males who yet lived: Arvog, the biggest, strongest, and fastest of them all. He was Anointed, as had been Ilgra’s father, and he towered over those who were not. But Anointed or no, Arvog bided upon the wisdom of the dams, and it was they who decided their course.

The clan stayed huddled in Zhar’s hall for a full three days, until they began to think that perhaps Vêrmund would not return. With the cruel tax of his hunger paid, and more besides, perhaps the worm had lost interest in those who had escaped. Perhaps.

While they waited, they sang the death songs for their fallen clanmates and made offerings at the shrine of Zhar to each of the gods. But most especially to Svarvok, king of the gods. For now more than ever, they needed his strength. Ilgra sang alongside her mother and sister—sang until she was a husk emptied of all but her voice—and together, they mourned their loss.

At close of the third day, the braver clan members returned to the village under cover of darkness to gather supplies and search for any wounded. They found but one: Darvek the carver, who had lost two of his fingers but otherwise still had use of his hands.

Four more days the clan held fast. In that time, Vêrmund showed no sign of movement; if not for the occasional puff of smoke that drifted from his nostrils, he might as well have been dead. Nevertheless, the clan prepared to again face the dragon. Under Arvog’s direction, they made spears from saplings and arrows from dogwood, boiled leather for armor, and honed their blades. Ilgra took to the warlike preparations with enthusiasm, determined to do all she could to help defeat the dragon.

For the Herndall had decided: they would stay, the valley was theirs, and Vêrmund an intruder deserving of death. All their belongings lay in that narrow mountain cleft, under the shadow of Kulkaras. Moreover, were they to leave, they would soon trespass on the territory of rival clans, and with their numbers so diminished, the Skgaro had little hope of winning new territory by force of arms.

Vêrmund too they could not hope to defeat in open battle, but much was said around the hall fire about tricks and traps, and a sense of reckless optimism spread. The most likely way to kill the dragon, they agreed, would be to climb Kulkaras and stab him through the eye while he lay dreaming.

First, though, the dead needed reclaiming. Without the proper rites, their spirits would not find the rest they deserved, and none of the Skgaro were willing to risk being cursed by those Vêrmund had slain. Nor was fear their only spur, but sorrow and respect also.

“We must move with haste,” said Arvog, “so we may strike at Vêrmund ere he wakes.”

Ilgra decided then to join the party that would retrieve the bodies. The thought of her father’s remains—if remains there were—lying in an open field where the birds and beasts might pick at them bothered her more than she could say. It was a deep wrongness, one she intended to correct.

From the store of weapons, she chose a spear, and she washed the blade with her blood and named it Gorgoth, or Revenge.

Her mother objected, said that Ilgra was still too young. “You have not yet reached the age of the ozhthim, and you have not passed your trials. Wait and leave this to those who have already proven their strength.”

But Ilgra rebelled. “No. I have my horns. I will not sit and cower while others venture forth.”

So she broke from her mother and went to stand with Arvog’s warband by the fire. They did not turn her away, but welcomed her into their fold, for their numbers were small and they needed all who were willing to help.

On the morning of the eighth day, Ilgra accompanied Arvog and the rest of the warband as they crept back to the smoldering ruins of their village. The fires had died down in the fields and the foothills, leaving the land scorched black. Many of the buildings still stood, though few without damage. Some had torn thatching, others a crushed wall or a broken beam, and everything sooty and stinking of smoke.

Finding their dead amid the devastation was no easy task. They worked in teams to sort through the rubble and scour the trampled earth, and many a grisly discovery they made. A smear of blood, a shard of bone: parts of loved ones left behind where the murderous dragon had been careless in his eating. Often it was impossible to attach a name to the parts, so Arvog had them gathered in the center of the village, and there the warband built them a proper pyre.

Ilgra labored alongside the others for half a day, silent except for when answering the occasional question or order. When last they broke to rest, she rested not but went to the wreckage of her family’s hall.

There, by the pile of blistered beams, Ilgra came upon what was left of her father: a twisted, nearly unrecognizable shape, charred black by dragonfire. Grief and rage—equally strong and equally terrible—stabbed her heart, and she knelt beside him and wept.

All her life her father had protected their family. Yet at the deciding moment, when the foul worm had threatened, she had not been able to protect him. It was a failure Ilgra could never correct, and she knew it would haunt her all her years.

Though singed and discolored, her father’s left horn was yet intact. When Ilgra could bring herself to move, she cut it from his head, chanting to the gods as she did, in the hope her prayers would smooth his way to the afterlife.

Then she gathered up his corpse and carried it to the pyre in the center of the village. The weight of her father’s body in her arms was not something that Ilgra soon forgot.

Their wretched search continued late into the evening, until they were well sure they had found every last piece of battered flesh belonging to their clanmates and placed them with grieving reverence upon the pyre. Then Ilgra and the rest of the warband performed the required rituals, and Arvog lit the tower of stacked wood.

It was a funeral fit for the bravest of warriors. And all the dead were warriors, even the younglings. The hated dragon had killed them in battle. They deserved the same consideration as any of the Horned who died while raiding or wrestling or otherwise attempting to win honor for their name.

As the pyre blazed bright, Arvog strode forth, bared his throat to the great mountain Kulkaras—and to Vêrmund atop—and bellowed so loudly that his cry echoed the length of the valley. Others joined in, and Ilgra too, until they all stood facing the mountain, shouting their challenges through throats torn raw. It was a foolish, futile gesture that risked rousing the dragon’s wrath, but they did not care.

The noise frightened a flock of ravens from the trees. If the sound troubled Vêrmund in his slumber, it did not show. He seemed entirely oblivious—or worse, uncaring—toward the valley below.

The warband kept vigil around the pyre while it burned, and when night fell, they made camp on the cold earth. Ilgra could not bring herself to sleep, so she stood watch beside the pillar of flames, gripping her spear and glaring at the strip of inky darkness wrapped tight around the peak of Kulkaras.

Stars still glimmered in the sky, and the first hint of grey light had just appeared above the eastern mountains when Arvog and six other warriors set out to climb Kulkaras and kill the dragon Vêrmund.

Ilgra begged to go with them, to quench her thirst for vengeance. But Arvog refused, said she was too young, too inexperienced. “We have but one chance to catch the worm unawares.”

And Ilgra hated that he was right.

Then he said, “Worry not, Ilgra. With Svarvok’s favor, you shall have your fill of blood today. All our clan shall.”

This Ilgra accepted, but it sat badly with her. Young she was, and untested also, but the anger that burned in her belly had no match, and she felt herself equal in spirit—if not stature—with the mightiest of the Horned.

With Arvog at the lead, the seven warriors departed. Ilgra and the rest of the warband watched in silence from beside the grave of coals.

It had been agreed that midday was the best time to strike at Vêrmund. Dragons, like the great mountain cats, were known to do most of their hunting in the early mornings and late evenings. When the sun was at its highest, Vêrmund was likely to be in the deepest part of his sleep and, thus, the most vulnerable—if ever a dragon the size of Vêrmund could be described as vulnerable.

Kulkaras was a formidable mountain, and though the Horned of Clan Skgaro were strong and hardy, reaching the peak was far from easy. The way was treacherous, full of steep ascents, narrow ridges, and slopes strewn with loose rock. Rare it was any of the Skgaro sought to gain the crown of high Kulkaras unless driven by vision or honor or madness. In all Ilgra’s life, only one of the clan had attempted it: a young warrior by the name of Nalvog, who had meant to prove himself by the feat when he could not prove himself by strength of arms. But Nalvog had failed in his attempt and, shamed, exiled himself from the valley. Since then, he had been seen no more.

While they waited, Ilgra and her companions sorted through the rubble for needed tools and prized possessions. The day was bleak and overcast, and rain came down upon them in fitful sweeps.

A chill crept into Ilgra’s bones. She sat crouched in the lee of a feed shed and pulled her wolfskin cloak tight around her shoulders. As always, her gaze turned to Kulkaras and to Vêrmund thereupon. But no sign of Arvog or his band could she see, nor did any cry or clash reach her straining ears.

The day wore on.

Near midday, one of Ilgra’s companions, Yarzhek, claimed to hear a sound from the mountaintop: a crack or a shout of some kind. But none of the others in the ruined village heard it, and Ilgra was doubtful. Soon after, she spotted what appeared to be a puff of smoke rising from Kulkaras, but after studying it, she decided the haze was actually a scrap of windblown cloud.

As the sun started toward the jagged horizon, it seemed clear that Arvog’s group had either been delayed in their purpose or had failed entirely.

Dispirited, Ilgra and the others gathered around the remnants of the pyre. There they sat, hunched and unspeaking, while dusk settled over the valley.

The hollow moon had just peeked over the mountains when they heard footsteps approaching. Down the path to Kulkaras came four of the seven who had departed. All were smeared with dirt and blood, and they appeared heartsick, footsore, and hungry. Arvog and another of the Anointed carried one of the Skgaro, who looked to have a broken ankle, while Arvog himself bore a deep gash above his brow.

Ilgra approved of the gash. It served his features well. “What happened?” she asked.

Setting down their injured companion, Arvog answered: “The dragon heard us. Heard or smelled, I know not which, but when we drew near, he lifted his tail and dropped it upon us. The four of us barely escaped being crushed. The others…” He shook his head. “We could not reach their bodies.”

Then Ilgra bent her neck with sorrow, mourning their deaths. She hoped their spirits might someday find safe passage to the afterlife.

What remained of the warband was somber indeed as they started back through the dark and the rain. When they arrived at the hall of Zhar, Arvog gave the clan a full accounting of their expedition, and the Herndall decided: they would not trouble Vêrmund the Grim again, not until or unless they had a better plan for ridding themselves of the cunning old worm.

Ilgra hated the decision, but having no suggestion of her own, she held her tongue.

The oldest of the Herndall, Elgha Nine-Fingers, then said, “We are fortunate you did not anger Vêrmund such that he came seeking after us. But we should not rest easy. Dragons have long memories and are slow to forgive. It is known.”

And all agreed.

Later still, when she sat with her mother and sister, Ilgra showed them the horn she had cut from her father’s head. As eldest heir, the horn was hers to keep, but Yhana touched it and said, “I am glad you did this.” And Ilgra saw tears in her eyes, and she knew then the measure of her sister’s grief, and it was no less than her own.

Days passed. In that time, the clan did their best to ignore the dragon perched atop Kulkaras. Instead, they tracked and captured the livestock that had survived the attack. They saved what seeds and materials they could. And one by one, those of the Skgaro who still had halls intact enough to ward off the weather began to return to the village.

Ilgra’s father had been a good hunter, and a Speaker of Truths for the Anointed—a position of no small importance. With him now gone, and their home destroyed, Ilgra and her family had no choice but to take refuge in the hall of Barzhqa, brother to her mother and much like her in make and temperament.

It rankled Ilgra that they needed to depend on Barzhqa’s generosity. But their choices were limited, and they were lucky not to be stuck living with Zhar, who always smelled of fish.

In the evenings, when she was free, Ilgra took her father’s horn to a stream and soaked it in the swift-flowing current. When the marrow of the horn was soft, she scraped it out and smoothed the inside with heated stones until it was slick as shell. Then she gave the horn to Darvek, and he carved a mouthpiece from the thigh bone of a bear, scribed the woven pattern of their family history around the belled end, and last of all, knotted a leather carrying strap round the middle.

When it was finished, an expanse of wonder broadened Ilgra’s heart. She put her lips to the mouthpiece and sounded the horn with a mighty breath. A brazen note rang forth, loud and deep-throated—a challenge to all who might oppose her. In it, Ilgra heard an echo of her father’s voice, and a sorrowful joy filled her eyes with tears.

A fortnight after Vêrmund’s bloody reaving, a wandering shaman came to them from the south. The shaman was short but thick in every measure, and his horns curled twice around his ears. His name was Ulkrö, and he carried a staff cut with runes and with a single sapphire, large as his thumb, set within the knotted wood. He claimed to have heard of Vêrmund and said that he, Ulkrö, could kill the dragon.

Ilgra listened with resentment: if anyone were to kill Vêrmund the Grim, it ought to be her. But it was a selfish desire, so she spoke of it not. The shaman frightened her: he passed his staff through the hall fire and made the flames dance at his command. She did not understand magic. She put her trust in bone and muscle, not words and potions.

The next morning, Ulkrö set forth to climb Kulkaras and confront the dragon. The whole clan turned out to watch, a silent gathering of hard-eyed faces, too wracked with sorrow to cheer or hope. Ulkrö made up for their quiet with japes and gibes and shows of magic. He finished with a bolt of lightning from his staff, with which he split a sapling, sending it tumbling to the ground. At that, the clan broke their stillness and gave full voice to a war chant as the shaman made his departure.

That evening, when the sun streamed low across the mountain peaks and the valley lay in purple shadow, Ilgra heard a roar from Vêrmund. Fear struck through her, and she and her family rushed outside, as did the rest of Clan Skgaro.

Upon high Kulkaras, they saw the giant worm spread his coal-black wings and rise up rampant before the amber sky. His head was wreathed with flashes of light, and fire burst from his maw, an angry banner that rippled as if in a beating gale. Shadows clung round the dragon, unnatural in the extreme, and slabs of stone split off the face of Kulkaras and fell to shatter against the trees below.

Whatever else could be said of the shaman Ulkrö, he was neither coward nor weakling, and his magics served him well. For a fraught span, the battle raged fierce and ferocious. Then the hollow shriek of the deathbird sounded among the trees, and a flare of red light went up from Kulkaras—a great beacon bright enough to pierce the gathered clouds and breach the heavens beyond. A moment later, the light vanished. They heard Vêrmund utter a triumphant bellow, and then all was still and all was quiet.

At dawn’s first light, Ilgra crept out with the warriors, fearful to see what Ulkrö had wrought. They turned their gazes northward, and there upon the peak of Kulkaras the scaled length of Vêrmund again coiled around the jagged rock, seemingly unperturbed by the night’s events.

Ilgra felt the grey leach of hopelessness, and she looked at Gorgoth, her spear, and wondered what hope she had of ever defeating the dragon Vêrmund. It was not in her nature to give up, though. Ilgra was her father’s daughter. By his name, she swore she would have her vengeance.

Two things Ulkrö had proven by his attack: First, that Vêrmund was content to stay on Kulkaras and sleep off his meal. Second, that the dragon was no more vulnerable to magic than he was to swords, spears, axes, or arrows.

It was a disheartening realization for the Skgaro. There was talk of making weighted nets big enough to snare Vêrmund’s wings, but the season was turning from summer to autumn, and much needed doing were they to survive the harsh mountain winter.

So the Skgaro put aside their plans for killing the dragon, and though they knew it was a risk, they began the task of rebuilding their village. They built more with stone than wood this time, and it was a tiresome labor for the males, who preferred hunting or raiding or sparring among themselves to determine who was strongest. But they prevailed, and their halls rose anew.

The Skgaro also dug hidden burrows throughout the foothills and stocked them well with provisions. It went against every fiber of their being to contemplate hiding like prey—the Horned bow to nothing and no one—but necessity forced them to it. The younglings had to survive, and the seedstock for next year’s planting too.

And they set watch upon Kulkaras at all times, night and day. Should Vêrmund descend again, they would have warning.

Many watches Ilgra stood. When not at her post—nor hewing stone or weeding their meager crops or tending flocks or any of the myriad tasks required of her—she devoted herself to working with her spear and learning from Arvog and the other warriors how best to fight. It was custom among the Horned for both males and females to train in the use of weapons—for theirs was a warlike people—but Ilgra pursued the practice with greater enthusiasm than most. She forsook the arts of hearth and home, much to her mother’s disapproval, and spent herself in contest with the males until she could hold her own with all but the strongest.

Thus the year crept past. With help from their clanmates, Ilgra and her family finished their new hall, and thereupon they set to making it a fit place to live ere the weather turned cold. And still Vêrmund remained perched upon Kulkaras, lost in his gluttonous slumber. At times, they heard rumblings from the mountain as the worm shifted or as he snored, knocking loose falls of ice and snow, and there were nights when fire lit the undersides of the clouds as Vêrmund exhaled particularly forcefully.

Inevitably, the younger males began to seek to earn a name for themselves by climbing Kulkaras and marking a spur of rock close to the dragon without waking him. The Herndall disapproved of the practice, but their disapproval did nothing to stop it.

At first the recklessness of the climbs bothered Ilgra. But then she decided they were a help to her, for they served to accustom Vêrmund to the occasional visitor—if indeed he even noticed. The accounts of those who reached the summit of Kulkaras also helped give her a sense of how she might accomplish the same. She listened with starved interest to each warrior upon his return, and in her mind, she pictured the path, imagined sneaking up on the sleeping worm….

The nearest any of the males got was within a stone’s throw of Vêrmund’s wing. It was impossible to cross the final stretch of scree-strewn granite without making noise, and none of the Horned, not even the most boastful, were willing to attempt it.

As for herself, Ilgra would not risk climbing Kulkaras unless she felt sure of being able to kill grim Vêrmund. So she held and waited.

The peace could not last, though. The whole clan knew it, and they lived with the knowledge of impending doom, and it wore upon them.

At first snowfall their nightmares came true: Vêrmund woke and, with a fearsome cry, unfurled his wings and took to the air. He wheeled in lazy circles above the gleaming spire of Kulkaras and then drifted down with the sound of rushing wind.

The clan fled. Ilgra too, clutching Yhana in one hand and Gorgoth in the other, while their mother hurried to keep up. They scattered to their burrows and sat huddled there while the dragon prowled among their halls and holdings. This time, no one tried to attack Vêrmund; the males cursed and brandished their weapons, but they dared not break cover.

The scaly old worm crept through the valley, dining upon deer and sheep and all manner of animals. However, he ate little compared with before and set only one small fire in the fields by the streams.

Then Vêrmund licked his chops with a tongue that was barbed like that of a cat. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to the air and, after several more lazy circles, settled once again on Kulkaras. He released a single huff of smoke, tucked his snout under his tail, and closed his crimson eyes.

Unbelieving, Ilgra crawled out of her burrow. None of the clan had been hurt, and the animals they had lost were not enough to starve them.

The Herndall consulted, and then Elgha nodded and said, “This we can endure.”

And so it was. Enduring was not to Ilgra’s taste, nor to any of the Skgaro’s, but it was better than being eaten.

Winter aged into spring, spring into summer, and then summer again to winter. The clan hunted and farmed and mated, and once more grew strong. Far above, Vêrmund was a black blight upon the crown of Kulkaras, a looming menace often seen and often spoken of but rarely an immediate threat. As they grew accustomed to his presence, the Skgaro came to view Vêrmund as more a part of the landscape than a living creature. To them he was no different from a force of nature: a blizzard or a plague that might strike without warning and that, for the most part, was best ignored.

If asked, the Skgaro would claim they still wished to kill the dragon, and in evenings, they often twisted cord for the much-discussed nets. But the yardage needed was far more than they could make in any reasonable period of time, and the nets remained unrealized.

True it was, Vêrmund sometimes roused himself and came flying down amid fire and fury to steal from their herds, and if any of the clan were foolish enough to challenge him, the dragon would eat them too. Yet Vêrmund’s attacks were not the most important part of their lives. Wood still needed chopping. Livestock still needed guarding against wolves and bears and sharp-eyed mountain cats. Crops still needed tending. The daily duties necessary to survival took precedence.

And Ilgra hated it. Complacency rankled her to no end; her blood called for vengeance, and every moment of delay was a frustration. Worse, there were some within the clan who began to speak of Vêrmund in reverent tones, as if he were worthy of respect. Several times, while herding flocks from one pasture to the next, Ilgra found small shrines in the foothills of Kulkaras, shrines with offerings of food and drink meant for the devouring worm. She destroyed them all. Had she known who built them, she would have beaten them with Gorgoth until they were bruised from head to heel.

Ilgra kept at her training, and her strength and skill continued to grow. Sparring with Arvog was no preparation for fighting the dragon, but because of it, she felt increasingly confident in her abilities.

The day of her ozhthim came late that winter, and upon its coming, the trials of passage, wherein Ilgra had to stand before the whole of the clan and prove her courage. Despite her fear, she held her place, and reaching the end, the dams marked her as a full member of Clan Skgaro.

But the trials were very hard. They were supposed to be. It was seven days before Ilgra was recovered enough to leave her hall, and three moons after that before the wounds on her chest had healed. Ilgra wore the scars as the badge of honor they were, and she wished her father had been there to see, for she knew he would have been proud. Not once had she cried out during the whole ordeal. Not once.

With the trials complete and her skills with Gorgoth well advanced, Ilgra finally felt ready to pair action with intent. Yet she bided her time a while longer, until winter broke and most of the snowy cap melted off high Kulkaras’s brow. Then one evening, when the air was mild and the fields were green, she filled a pouch with unguent for burns and with berries and cheese and dried strips of meat. She sharpened Gorgoth once more—so it could cut a strand of hair with the lightest touch—and she brushed and cleaned her leather armor, oiled it so it gleamed by the hall fire.

She said nothing of her plans to her mother or sister, only kissed each on the forehead before retiring to bed.

When the birds first sounded in the grey before dawn, Ilgra rose and slipped from the hall and, in the coolness of morning, turned to face Kulkaras.

None marked her passing as she snuck through the village, not even Razhag, the male on watch. When she reached the forest edge, Ilgra quickened her pace, heading toward the ridge of earth and stone that would allow her to climb Kulkaras’s flank. It was the same path the shaman Ulkrö had followed, and the knowledge gave her a moment of pause.

Still, an expanding sense of excitement filled Ilgra’s heart, and she moved forward with light steps, glad to at last be taking action.

Despite Ulkrö’s failure, and that of Arvog’s warband before, Ilgra felt sure she could succeed where they had failed. The reasons for her confidence were simple: she was not going to attempt to match Vêrmund in open combat. (Though Ilgra was willing to risk her life in pursuit of vengeance, she was not willing to throw it away in a hopeless gambit.) And she had become convinced that Arvog’s warband had failed in their quest because of the noise the seven warriors had made on the rock face. The lone males who had ascended Kulkaras had managed to avoid attracting Vêrmund’s attention. Thuswise, Ilgra felt she could do the same. By herself, she could be quiet in a way no group of Horned could, and she had other means of avoiding detection besides….

Then it would just be a matter of a quick thrust of Gorgoth beneath Vêrmund’s armored eyelid, and the dragon would die. The thrust would need to be long to reach the worm’s brain, but Ilgra had no doubt that—with the memory of her father guiding her arm—she could hit her mark.

When she came upon a small stream that poured out of the ground and down a mossy gully, she stopped to fill her skins. As she held them beneath the icy water, she breathed deep, enjoying the smell of the stream and the peaceful sound of water burbling over wood and stone. For she knew it might be the last time she would savor such a simple pleasure.

Onward she forged, through brake and bramble, up rise and ridge, across saddle and scarp, until the village was a shrunken cluster below, as tiny as a youngling’s toys. Often outcroppings of rock blocked the way, and Ilgra had to climb from one precarious hold to another, knowing that if her hands slipped, she might lose her life. The sun beat hot throughout the day, and sweat gathered upon her brow and dripped into her eyes so they stung. She ate while walking, but sparingly, not wanting her stomach to be heavy with food.

So steep was Kulkaras that, for most of the ascent, the mountain hid the bulk of Vêrmund from her sight. She could hear the dragon, though, snorting and growling in his sleep, and when he shifted his weight, the bones of the mountain groaned and birds flew in fright from the boughs of the trees.

Eventually and inevitably, Vêrmund came into sight. First a section of his tail, extending over the side of Kulkaras like a great black cliff, sharp and jagged. Then a fold of wing, thicker than any hide and laced with pulsing veins the width of her legs. And last of all, the huge white claws of one forefoot—curved, saw-toothed, and cruelly pointed—and above, the dragon’s wedge-shaped head, partially covered by a length of tail. A heavy odor clung to the worm, a sour musk that reminded her of the den of a large cat. It was a warning scent, the scent of an eater of flesh.

Ilgra stopped at the first, distant glimpse of Vêrmund and made her final preparations. She tied rags around her feet that they might not betray her with unwanted sound. And she poured water onto the sparse earth and smeared herself with mud to hide her own scent. Were she hunting deer, she would have used pine needles or chokeweed, but so high on the mountain only moss and lichen grew. She finished by rubbing her skin with a mat of wool she had hung over the hearth in their hall, so as to gather the scent of smoke. The worm so often spouted smoke from his nostrils, she felt sure he had long since ceased to smell it.

Then Ilgra gathered her courage and resumed her climb, only slower and more careful than before.

When some time later she gained a clear view of Vêrmund’s head, she froze, and her heart redoubled in pace. For she saw a slit of red in Vêrmund’s eye, and she realized he slept with the armored lid partially open. She studied the mountaintop: the stone was rotten and split in heavy slabs. Deep scratches scored the surface, and scales big as both her hands lay scattered among the pieces of scree, while patches of unmelted snow filled the shadowed hollows. Near the dragon’s folded wing, Ilgra spotted the flat-faced boulder marked with the sigils of those warriors who had reached the summit.

Careful not to disturb the loose-strewn rock, Ilgra edged around the dragon, always keeping a slab of stone between her and the crimson eye. If she could get close enough, she could strike before the worm had a chance to react. Even if she failed in killing him, she would still half blind him, and he would be disadvantaged forevermore.

She whispered a prayer to her father and to Rahna, queen of the gods, and by them she bolstered her courage.

The thinness of the air made her want to gasp. The strength of her anticipation sped her pulse. Every muscle in her body was strung taut in readiness for action. Tremors of nervous excitement wracked her steps. Already she could feel the frenzy of battle rage—the great boon and bane of her people—rising within her, and she bared her teeth with feral glee.

Near an hour passed before Ilgra finally maneuvered herself behind a slab within striking distance of Vêrmund’s enormous head. She stayed crouched there while she calmed her breathing and readied her spirit. Should she die, it would be a glorious death, and the clan would sing her name for generations to come. She touched the horn of her father, where it hung on her hip. She wished she could wind it, but she dared not lose the advantage of surprise. Every chance of success rested upon it.

Ilgra took a breath. Then she vaulted over the slab and ran headlong toward the dragon, spear held high. Three quick steps, and she drove her weapon toward the narrow slit of Vêrmund’s sleeping eye.

The dragon blinked.

With a loud ping, the blade of the spear shattered against Vêrmund’s scaled lid, and the haft bounced back in Ilgra’s hands, numbing her palms. She stumbled to a stop. For a brief moment, she stood motionless, dumbfounded.

The lid lifted. A blazing, red-rimmed eye stared down at her, the pupil a black crevice large enough to walk through. The eye filled the sky; it dominated her existence, pinning her in place with palpable force. Then the dragon’s mind enveloped her own, and Ilgra shrank before the vast and incomprehensible nature of its intelligence. From it she felt not surprise, nor anger, nor even amusement, but the worst of all reactions…indifference.

Her sense of self faltered beneath the withering onslaught of Vêrmund’s presence. The world seemed to tilt around her, and darkness yawned wide with a hungry grin, and all she knew and all she was became no more important than a mote of dust, adrift in an endless void….

Fury freed Ilgra of the dragon’s dangerous hold, and she reached for her father’s horn as she backed away. She could endure many things from the worm, but not indifference. Never that! If it was the last thing she did, she would shake Vêrmund from his apathy and force him to respond as was proper, force him to respect her. That much she—and her clan—was owed.

Ilgra lifted the horn to her lips, about to give voice to her outrage, when the scree betrayed her. Her foot slipped on a loose piece of rock, and she fell tumbling backward off the barren ridge atop proud Kulkaras.

She flailed and lost her grip on Gorgoth. Finding no purchase, she pulled the horn against her belly, holding it close as sky and mountain spun in a dizzying circle. Icy snow broke against her, and then brush and branches, until—with a jolt so violent her vision flashed white and a spangle of stars obscured her sight—Ilgra fetched up against the twisted trunk of a wind-warped fir.

Like all the Horned, Ilgra had a thick skin, as thick as that of a winter boar. It protected her from many wounds, but it could not protect her from the worst. When her breath returned in sudden gasps and she strove to move, Ilgra discovered her leg was broken, and she cried out with pain.

Her spear was nowhere to be seen.

She lay there for a hopeless while, staring toward the peak, waiting for Vêrmund to crawl down the face of Kulkaras and devour her. She could neither run nor fight nor hide, so Ilgra did what was only sensible and held still to conserve her strength.

But Vêrmund never appeared. It seemed she was entirely unimportant so far as the dragon was concerned. The realization aggravated Ilgra nearly as much as her broken leg; it wasn’t right the worm should have so much power over their lives—the very power of life and death—and yet to him, they were no more than scurrying mice.

Ilgra snarled and pulled herself upright, though the effort nearly caused her to again cry out. She clung to the tree, as a drowning swimmer clings to the slightest hold, and waited while the torment of her leg slowly subsided. She checked her father’s horn, the strap still knotted round her fist, and was gladdened to see it well and whole.

As Ilgra readied to move, she spotted a glint of brilliant blue in the nearby scrub. Curious, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled closer, each touch of leg to ground sending a lance of pain through her body. She parted the scrub with her hands, and there, among the knotted stems, saw the staff of Ulkrö the shaman.

Wonder overcame her, for the wood appeared untouched by the mountain’s harsh clime. Ilgra took the staff then, and as she held it before her, she decided: if she could not best Vêrmund by strength of limb, she would have to best him with less honest means—with spells and spirits and the twisting of words. The thought frightened her, but Ilgra had never been one to let fear win out.

Then she named the staff as she had named her spear: Gorgoth, or Revenge.

She crawled back to the fir, cut a branch, and with a strip torn from her tunic, bound it to her broken leg. Then, using the staff as a crutch, she began the long climb back down Kulkaras to the valley floor.

It was a miserable ordeal. Every step hurt, and ere long Ilgra’s throat grew dry and the ache of hunger hollowed out her stomach, for she had lost her food and water in the fall.

She stopped often to rest her leg, and it was deep into the gloaming when the orange light of the first hall appeared twinkling between the branches of the trees. A welcome sight, for it promised warmth and safety and good food.

Arvog and Moqtar found her before she reached the hall. They greeted her with cries of relief and looked with wonder at the staff she bore. The two had been waiting for her since morn. As Arvog explained, when it became known she had departed, it took but a short while before they found her spoor and tracked her to the base of Kulkaras. None dared follow past that point, for fear of what Vêrmund might do if she roused the dragon. But they had kept watch, in hope she would return.

“Your mother is much worried,” said Arvog in his low rumble. Ilgra nodded. She had expected nothing else.

They carried her back home. There her mother and sister descended upon Ilgra with a concern fierce enough to give even Vêrmund—evil as he was—pause. And yet Ilgra could tell, despite the cuffs and accusations, that her mother was proud: what Ilgra had done was a feat equal to those of the bravest warriors. And while she had not succeeded in killing the dragon, she had retrieved a great treasure in Ulkrö’s staff.

Yhana too seemed proud, and she said, “Were I grown into my horns, I would have gone with you, Ilgra-sister. You did what I cannot yet do, and for that I am glad.”

Then her mother said, “You are finished now, yes? You have satisfied the demands of honor. You will not attempt any more foolishness.”

But Ilgra’s discontent remained. So long as Vêrmund lived, she could not rest easy. Only the blood of the dragon could slake her thirst for vengeance. She made to say as much, but the arrival of the healer ended the conversation.

A leather belt was fit between Ilgra’s teeth, and she bit down while the bone in her leg was pulled straight and set. She made no sound but stared at the ceiling and thought of the staff and all she needed to learn. For Ilgra was young and yet undaunted.

Her leg healed badly. She had further damaged it during her descent from Kulkaras, and the bone knit with a bend so that, forever after, she walked with a limp, as the one leg was shorter than the other. It hurt too, in damp and cold and after walks, but Ilgra never let the discomfort prevent her from going where she wanted.

One thing was certain, however: her days as a warrior had reached their end. Her balance was poor, and if some foe struck her crippled leg, it would give way and was like to break again.

The knowledge was a bitter drop upon her tongue. Ilgra found her thoughts wandering down unaccustomed paths, dark and tangled. At times she would remember the feel of Vêrmund’s mind, and then the world seemed to grow dim and distant and she would have to sit until the sensation passed.

Despite her leg, Ilgra grew ever taller. By autumn it was clear she was Anointed, as was her father before, and one by one, the males came courting. Those she could not ignore, she beat about the head and shoulders with Gorgoth and so chased them away. For the clan feared the staff and the magics it contained.

Her mother and sister disapproved, but Ilgra had no desire to take a mate. Such would only distract from her larger goal. She said nothing of her intent, though, and merely claimed no male had done enough to win her favor. That was, for the moment, enough to quell their concern.

What time she had of her own, Ilgra spent in study with the staff, attempting to learn its secrets, but her efforts bore no fruit; she knew not the ways of weirding, and whatever powers the staff possessed—set there by Ulkrö himself—remained a mystery.

Her lack of progress became an ever-greater source of discontent; Ilgra could hardly sleep at nights for thinking about the riddle the staff presented. At last, late in the season, she decided her only hope of success lay in seeking out a mentor who might instruct her in magic. The thought of leaving the valley pained her greatly, but doing nothing was a still greater torment.

For once, fortune smiled upon her. Just as Ilgra began her preparations, another shaman arrived at the village, and his name was Qarzhad Stone-Fist. To him Ilgra showed the staff and confessed her desire to learn the weirding arts, but Qarzhad scoffed and made claim on the staff by right of his chosen craft.

Ilgra laughed at his claim, and the clan laughed with her. No outlander could tell the Skgaro what spoils were theirs to keep, not even a shaman. Then Qarzhad locked horns with her, and laughter turned to threats, and it was only with much wrestling and shouting that they reached a compromise that dissatisfied them both—this being the hallmark of all good compromises. What they settled upon was a wager: a full round of Maghra, three games of three. Should Ilgra win, Qarzhad would take her as apprentice and teach her his secret knowledge. And should Qarzhad win, Ilgra would surrender the staff and that would be the end of the matter.

Though surprised by Ilgra’s challenge, her mother did not object. To be a shaman was to be a person of importance. It would bring honor to their family. Moreover, any clan lucky enough to have a spellweaver of their own was all but guaranteed to survive the winter.

The contest was held that evening. The whole village gathered in Arvog’s hall to watch. Ilgra and Qarzhad sat with lowered horns, one across from the other and the polished table of bone between.

Nine games in total they played, nine as was the sacred number. Ilgra won Beater, the first set of three, and Qarzhad won Biter, the second set. This was no more than Ilgra had expected. When it came to Breaker, the third and final set, Ilgra knew she had the upper horn. Breaker could be won either by attacking your opponent or by fleeing before them and so catching them in a trap of your own making. Like most warriors, Qarzhad was too proud to flee, but for herself, Ilgra no longer had any pride. She only cared to win. So she broke, and by breaking, won.

Qarzhad cursed her, but a wager was a wager, and he to his pledged word was true.

At morn’s first light, Ilgra met the shaman in an empty meadow along the shadowed edge of the forest, and there it was she began her apprenticeship.

For three moons Ilgra labored under the instruction of Qarzhad. He was a cruel and uncompromising tutor, but Ilgra minded not. She wanted to learn, and she was willing to drive herself far beyond the bounds of comfort.

And learn she did. Qarzhad taught her the rules of weirding and of the ancient language used to reshape the world according to one’s will. He showed Ilgra how to govern her thoughts and feelings, and how to touch the minds of others, even as Vêrmund had done with hers. When by herself, Ilgra strove to memorize the names and words Qarzhad saw fit to share with her: words of power that spoke to the true nature of things.

Her mother, and the clan as a whole, freed Ilgra of all but the most basic responsibilities so she could devote herself to study. She did not tell them of her greater goal, though—not even her family—preferring to keep it clasped close to her heart.

At the end of the three moons, Qarzhad Stone-Fist departed. He was at heart a wanderer, and there were other clans—clans without shamans—that needed his services. Ere he left, he gave Ilgra a list of tasks: skills to master, words to practice, tools to make. Also too a list of prohibitions: things she was not to do—foremost of which was any weirding that broke the laws of nature, and second any weirding with Ulkrö’s staff.

While he was gone, Ilgra was consistent with her practice. She strove to excel that she might surprise Qarzhad upon his return and so she might accomplish her greater goal all the sooner. For the longest time, Ilgra felt as if she were butting her head against stone: nothing about weirding came easily. But she persisted, and just as horn grows too slowly to notice from day to day and yet after a span of months the changes are plain to see, so too did Ilgra’s understanding progress.

The weirding felt strange to Ilgra. She was ill accustomed to using word or thought to force a change. At first it seemed a cheat, but the weirding exacted a price of effort in proportion to the ambition of her intent, and the price comforted Ilgra, assured her that she was still a member of the Horned and not a spirit or a god. She was still bound to the earth and the trees and the reality of life itself.

Qarzhad returned at the end of harvest, and Ilgra showed him all she had accomplished. If the shaman was impressed, he did not say, only worked her harder, gave her more tasks—ones that forced her well past the limits of her abilities.

Again, Qarzhad stayed some few moons, and then again he left to resume his wandering. In like manner, Ilgra’s apprenticeship continued.

As moons gathered into seasons, and then seasons into years, Ilgra learned many things: she learned the true names of the deer and the bears and all the birds and beasts of the mountains. Also too the plants, be they ever so large or small. And she learned how to speak to the wind and the earth and the flames of the fire and how to coax them into doing her bidding. The riddle of steel became hers and the secrets of binding and warding and making.

In time, Qarzhad taught her the truth about her staff—no longer Ulkrö’s, now hers. The sapphire set within the end contained a great storehouse of power that broke and battered like a wildling sea against its sharp-edged prison. Should that prison fail, the sea would rush forth in a torrent and destroy all who were near. But if the shaman who wielded the staff were wise, they could harness the power to their will and use it to accomplish great feats—feats that one person alone could not hope to otherwise accomplish. The power was not to be squandered, though. It was a treasure more valuable than the stone itself: a gleaming hoard that Ulkrö and his master before him had gathered over the course of their lifetimes. The power was to be husbanded against moments of rare need, and between those, Ilgra should add to it herself, nurture it, feed it with the strength of her body so the hoard might grow to even greater size and she might pass it on in turn.

And Ilgra understood: the power was a legacy. But she had no intention of preserving it, and for that, she felt guilty.

Twice she accompanied Qarzhad on his wanderings. She had never left the valley of the Skgaro before, and the sight of new mountains both excited and unsettled her, and the clans they visited had unfamiliar customs that ofttimes made her feel less than hearth-welcome. Still, the travel was useful, and she was grateful for the experiences, for they revealed to her the true size of the world. More than that, they strengthened her love and appreciation of home. The valley contained every good thing a clan needed: clean water, plentiful game, trees and stone for building. The only fault it had was Vêrmund; if she could but remove him, their home would again be as it should.

In those years, Vêrmund’s lengths of slumber were unpredictable, but the clan grew familiar with his attacks, and of them, few surprises came. As long as they kept their distance and angered not the worm, they could expect to survive. There were exceptions—accidents on their part, sometimes malice on Vêrmund’s—but the exceptions were rare enough to bear.

None of which Ilgra could accept with any good grace, and Vêrmund’s presence remained a hard lump stuck in her throat.

Then one day a neighboring clan, the Clan Ynvek, came raiding.

It happened in late summer, when the fields were full and the animals fattened. The Ynvek surprised them at the height of the midday sun. With whoops and bellows and wild cries, the Ynvek’s warriors charged out of the forest, shaking spears and hammers and poles with woven pennants displaying family crests.

Such raids were common among the clans. They were a good way for males to test themselves and win a name sufficient to attract a mate. For the most part, the raids were, while not entirely friendly, not entirely hostile. Blood would be shed, but rare it was that a member of either clan lost their life.

In this case, a raid upon the Skgaro would be considered an opportunity to capture an outsized share of glory, seeing as how they lived beneath the shadow of a dragon. Already their clan had acquired a reputation for bravery far beyond the norm.

So it was that, when the raid occurred, Ilgra deemed it more an exciting distraction than a serious threat. She ran from her family’s rebuilt hall and joined the clan in beating back the intruders. As always, the males took the lead, but it was a group effort: all but the younglings were honor-bound to participate. Even the oldest of the Herndall took up arms (mainly canes and reed brooms, which stung like hornets).

While Ilgra shook her staff at a bewildered Ynvek, she watched with admiration as Arvog grappled with the largest of the attacking warriors and beat him to the ground. Then another Ynvek charged over and tried to seize her—she was Anointed, after all, and much prized on that account—and Ilgra struck him with Gorgoth, and with a weirding word set swampfire on the tips of his horns. The greenish flames held no heat, but the Ynvek shrieked a most unseemly sound and fled, panic-struck, toward the nearest stream, batting at his burning horns the whole while.

And Ilgra was much amused.

The sounds of their contest rang loud in the noonday air: the clanging of wood and iron, the bellows and shouts of the males, the curses and exhortations of the females, and the outraged bleating of the livestock.

The clamor was loud enough, it seemed, that it reached all the way to the lofty peak of high Kulkaras. For amid their fighting, Ilgra heard a warning shout, and she turned to see Vêrmund the Grim lifting his head from its stony pillow.

The dragon peered toward the valley floor, and their fighting ceased as Vêrmund uttered a rolling, rumbling, avalanche-inducing growl. The growl was so powerful, Ilgra felt it in her feet and in her bones. The surface of the ground blurred with vibration. Animals cowered, streams rippled, and the air darkened as flocks of screaming birds fled the forest. Atop Kulkaras, slabs of ice and snow cleaved from the granite peak and fell with soft thunder into the ranks of trees below, snapping their hoary trunks like stalks of dry straw.

The worm’s meaning could not have been any clearer.

Then Vêrmund lowered his head, closed his eyes, and appeared to sink back into sleep.

The Ynvek paled and put away their weapons. Without another word, they fled back whence they came, taking with them neither mates nor livestock nor trophies nor glory itself.

And Ilgra crossed her arms and glared at the distant dragon. That he felt possessive of his private foodstocks did nothing to lessen her hate.

After four full years of instruction, Qarzhad Stone-Fist announced that there was nothing more he could teach her. Indeed, Ilgra had already surpassed him in mastery of weirding. But as he cautioned her, mastery did not always imply wisdom.

Ilgra thanked him, for she was grateful for his tutelage and she had grown fond of the ill-tempered shaman over the years.

Then Qarzhad took her by the horns and said, “I know the ambition that lies in your heart, Ilgra Lamefoot. Well I understand it. Once I had a mate, a strong, fierce Horned not unlike yourself. But one spring, she chanced upon a bear that had woken from its winter slumber. It was mean and hungry, and it attacked her. I found her, still alive, but all my years of study, all my skill and knowledge, were not enough to save her.”

“Is that why you wander?” Ilgra asked.

Qarzhad nodded, and still he held her horns. “The bear was a lone male, without a territory of its own. I set out to track it and kill it, but never did I find it, and since that day, more than a score of years has now passed.”

“Then why not return home?”

The shaman smiled. It was the first true smile she had seen of him. “Because there are others in the world who need helping, and to help is a great good and a better use of my life. It is not the way of our people, Ilgra, but my counsel is this: abandon your quest for vengeance ere it destroys you. The dragon outstrips us all. You are strong and clever, and you care for our kind. It would be a sorrow to lose you to a rash adventure that kills so many of our young warriors.”

Ilgra was silent as she thought upon his words. Then she said, “Your counsel means much to me, Qarzhad, and I thank you for it, but I cannot forget my father, and I cannot abandon my quest.”

“Did I say you should forget?…I shall not argue with you on this, Ilgra. Only think well on what you do. You have been a good apprentice of mine. No matter your chosen path, you have my blessing. May the gods grant you good fortune, and may you always be of sharp mind and clear conscience.”

Then Qarzhad released her horns and once more departed. And Ilgra knew he would not soon return.

Now confident of her abilities, Ilgra set to work with eager desire. For she had a plan: the dragon was a creature of fire, and if that fire could be extinguished, then might Vêrmund be killed. And how best to snuff out a fire but with the cleansing force of water?

For three days she walked the valley fringe, searching for the place that might best serve her. All dissatisfied her until—at last—she thought of the pool where she used to swim, the selfsame pool where she had watched Vêrmund’s dread arrival.

The pool itself was too small for her purpose, but the overspill poured into a deep and winding ravine with walls of stone, moisture blackened and green-spotted with mosses, lichens, and hanging tendrils that put forth pale flowers in spring’s early days. If the ravine were blocked at its narrowest point, a great store of water would build up behind the blockage—and should that store break loose, woe betide any caught in the water’s path. They would be trapped between the stony walls, beaten and bashed and battered beyond saving.

It was a thought most pleasing.

Yet still Ilgra kept her plans to herself. Although uncertain of their success, she saw no merit in debate or discussion. Nothing could turn her aside from her chosen path. Besides, the outrush of water would pose little danger to the Skgaro; the ravine and the stream sat some distance south of their village and, like the other streams nestled among the folds of the mountains, fed into the Hralloq River that ran north to south along the valley floor, from conquered Kulkaras to distant, saw-toothed Ulvarvek that marked the limit of the clan’s holdings.

But there were problems to be solved. How to build the blockage. And once it was built, how best to lure Vêrmund the Grim into the ravine. In autumn, the clan would trap geese by digging narrow, sloping trenches that they baited with suet. The geese would follow the bait, unsuspecting, and find themselves caught in the deep end of the trenches, unable to spread their wings and fly….Goose or dragon, the principle was the same.

Ilgra wasted no time in putting plan to action.

First she left her family’s hall and raised herself a small hut on the crest of the ravine. This occasioned much argument with her mother, who felt it wrong of Ilgra to remove herself from the daily doings of the village. “It is not good,” she said. “Not for you and not for us.”

But Ilgra insisted, and her departure became a festering sore between them. As for the rest of the Skgaro, they accepted Ilgra’s removal without question. The weavers of spells were seen as separate from the normal strand of the Horned, and strangeness of behavior was expected of them.

Once ensconced in her hut, alone with the wind and the howls of wandering wolves, Ilgra began her work. Speaking words of power, she carved a path through the dirt and thus diverted the overspill from the spring-fed pool into a channel alongside the lip of the ravine. With the stream coursing along a new path, she was then free to descend into the rocky cleft below without having to contend with the flow of water.

All that summer and autumn, Ilgra labored to dam up the ravine at the point where the stone walls stood closest: a pinched gap no wider than twice the full span of her arms. Though her leg was not fit for fighting, she was Anointed and, like all Anointed, strong. She toiled mightily, and by dint of her efforts, filled the gap with boulders carried from high on the mountain’s side.

As each boulder dropped into place, Ilgra bound it with weirding to the rocks below, welding them one to another so they formed a single, solid whole. And when the final piece was placed, she returned the overspill to its normal course, and the water began to gather behind the stone blockade.

Yet the feed of water was slight; it would take many months to fill the apportioned ravine. In the meantime, the bed of the stream lay dry below, a pebbled snake now grey and dead.

When the Skgaro noticed her labors, they questioned her. Ilgra merely claimed that she wanted to make a larger pool for swimming, and the clan did not see fit to challenge her word, ascribing her actions to the expected eccentricities of a shaman.

But while her explanation satisfied the rest of the clan, it did not satisfy her mother, who said, “You never do anything without purpose, Ilgra-daughter. Tell me truly, what is it you want?”

Then it was Ilgra’s loneliness proved her undoing. A moment of weakness overcame her—a desire for much-missed closeness with those she loved—and in that moment of weakness, she confessed her secret desire.

The confession greatly angered her mother, and she said, “This is why you have kept yourself apart, Ilgra-daughter? It is head-sickness. It is dogbite fever. The dragon cannot be killed. If ever he leaves, it will be of his own choice, and not because of anything we have done.”

To which Ilgra said, “That I cannot accept. I will either kill Vêrmund, or he will kill me. No other outcome is possible.”

Her mother gnashed her teeth. “Why must you be so troublesome? Some things there are we cannot change. There is no glory in fighting the inevitable. Do you not understand?”

“I understand that the worm killed my father, who was your bloodmate! You would leave him and the rest of our clanmates unavenged. Well not I!”

Then Ilgra’s mother locked horns with her, though the difference in their height was so great as to make Ilgra bend nearly in half. “I honored my mate, and I cared for our children,” said her mother, a growl in her voice. “There was no glory in getting myself slain that you might grow up alone in the world.”

At that, understanding broke Ilgra’s anger, and she bared her throat. “You are right. I meant no disrespect.”

Her mother lifted her horns as well. A softness entered her expression. “You are a good daughter to me, Ilgra, and a good sister to Yhana. But please, give up this fruitless quest. It will bring you nothing but sorrow.”

“I cannot.”

“You are determined? You will spend your life in this manner, despite my counsel?”

“I am.”

And her mother sighed. “Then I must give you my blessing in the hope it may prove a shield against misfortune.” And she did so, and they embraced, and Ilgra felt her eyes fill with tears.

Early next morning, Ilgra came out of her hut to find Yhana standing upon the side of the ravine, staring at Ilgra’s handiwork below.

Said her sister, “You still mean to avenge our father.” It was not a question.

To which Ilgra said, “Yes.”

Then Yhana looked at her with fierce eyes. “Good. Were I as strong as you, I would do likewise. You are Anointed, but I am not. You know the ways of weirding, but I do not. And you have no fear, Ilgra-sister. I wish the same were true for me.”

“I do fear,” said Ilgra. “But it does not stop me.” Then she wrapped Yhana in her arms, and it comforted Ilgra to know her sister supported her and shared her desire to stop Vêrmund.

Her family said nothing to the rest of the Skgaro of Ilgra’s intent, and for that Ilgra was grateful. But thereafter, she felt more alone than ever, for the weight of Yhana’s expectations added to her own, and the voice of the wind seemed to acquire a mocking tone.

While she waited for the ravine to fill, she focused her energies on her duties as shaman to the Skgaro. Mainly this involved helping with births, healing what hurts she could, and setting spells upon various tools as a guard against breakage or other mishap. A shaman’s responsibilities were of a more tangible sort than those of the Herndall—who, along with leading the clan, oversaw the mysteries of auguries and portents, as well as all matters pertaining to the gods. It was for the best. Despite her use of weirding, Ilgra preferred to deal with things that she could touch. Things that were real.

The Horned she assisted often gave her gifts in return; the saving of a life was no small thing, after all. By such means, Ilgra soon acquired a small herd of sheep and goats (and one disgruntled bristle-back boar). She penned the animals within the ravine and fed them each day with fodder kept dry beneath a stand of layered branches. Also, about the pen she hung woven charms, so as to fend off the beasts of the mountains.

Thus it was she baited her trap.

The filling of the ravine went far slower than Ilgra expected. It worried her, for winter was nigh, and at least once each winter, Vêrmund would descend for a smallish meal of whatever livestock he could catch. If the gorge was only partially full by the time he came to eat, the wash of water would be insufficient to subdue the mighty worm, and she would have to wait through the winter, until the worm’s next feeding.

Faced with that unpleasant prospect, Ilgra decided to take drastic measures. She went to the spring-fed pool above the ravine and, by the strength of her limbs, dug a channel through the full height of the bank, that the pool might drain unhindered into the ravine below. The water was less than she needed, but with its addition, she had hope the reservoir might fill in time.

If Vêrmund the Grim noticed her work, Ilgra knew he would never be so foolish as to enter the ravine. He was a canny old worm and wary of ambush. Fortunately, the steep-sided flanks of Kulkaras hid the pool from the dragon’s burning eyes, and Ilgra felt confident of catching him unawares.

Otherwise, her plans would end in fire.

Three moons passed before the stream finally filled the dam, tumbled over the cracked and weathered lip, and continued along its ancestral bed. Winter had settled upon the valley during the third moon, and shingles of broken ice covered the newly formed pool, now dark with shadowed depths. The ice pleased Ilgra; it made the trap that much more dangerous. To further increase the damage the water might cause upon release, she rolled windfell trees atop the ice, until a thicket of brittle branches adorned the frozen pool.

Thereafter, all that was left was to wait for Vêrmund to bestir himself. It would not be long, she thought, before hunger woke the worm from his evil sleep.

In those days, Ilgra kept to her hut, insisting that the Skgaro come to her whenever possible, lest she find herself too far afield when Vêrmund finally came thundering down. It was a selfish insistence, and her mother disapproved, but her clanmates never complained, again accepting Ilgra’s demand as normal of a shaman. For that, she felt ashamed. But shame could not sway her from her course.

Long hours she spent in isolation, sitting and brooding while she turned her mind to the twisting of words. With each night that passed, she felt more withdrawn, as if she were fading from the world, becoming a wraith haunting the dark pinewood forest.

She thought much of her father during those days. Of how in winter he sat by the hearth and wove the thulqna, the patterned straps by which the Horned display the crest of their clan and also the lineage of their families, with all the notable deeds ascribed to their ancestors. Of how he carved figures of deer and goats and foxes for her and Yhana to play with. Of how safe she had felt beside him, so large and strong was he.

Then too Ilgra recalled an evening when she was hardly more than a babe, and her father had returned from the hunt with a doe draped over his shoulder. The eyes of the deer had been so round and soft they had troubled Ilgra, and she had been greatly saddened by the sight. But her father knelt beside her, and he said, “Do not be upset, Ilgra-daughter. There is nothing to fear. This is the way of things. Today we feed upon the deer that we may live. In time, our bodies will feed the grass and trees that other deer may live. So it goes.”

Ilgra had once found the thought comforting. No more, though. Her mind rebelled against the truth of what her father said, insisted that there must be another, better way.

Just because something was did not mean it should always be.

The winter solstice marked a break in her self-imposed exile. It was a time of celebration for the Skgaro as they said a welcome farewell to the shortest day of the year. In the village there was much music and feasting to be had and feats of strength also, cheered on by the whole of the clan.

Ilgra waited out the first part of the festivities in her hut, waited until the light began to fade from the sky and she felt certain Vêrmund was not about to fly down. Never yet had he attacked during night, and she doubted his habit was about to change. Regardless, leaving her post by the ravine was worth the risk. She felt in sore need of company; the sounds of song drifting from the village put a pang in her heart.

A layer of heavy clouds hung over the valley, and from them fell soft flakes of snow, large and slow. In the muffled solitude, Ilgra trudged from her hut to the village and thence to her family hall. Along the way, she heard the baying of hungry wolves echoing through the forest. Had she not her staff, Ilgra would have feared for her life.

She spent the evening with her mother and Yhana, cooking and talking and enjoying the pleasure of their closeness. Later still, they played games and lamented the length of winter, while outside the flurries of snow thickened into a blinding wall, driven before the relentless, ice-cut wind.

Then a shriek pierced the storm-wrapped night, a shriek such as Ilgra had never heard before. At the sound of it, her heart clenched and her bones grew cold and every bristle on her nape prickled and stood on end. For a moment, she could neither move nor breathe, and only when her heart finally jolted back to life was she able to properly react.

“What was that?” whispered her mother.

And Ilgra knew not. Nothing in Qarzhad’s teaching had spoken of such a thing. Another shriek, louder than before, split the wind, and Ilgra shivered from head to toe. She grabbed Gorgoth and sprang to her feet.

Before she could take a step, a great black beak stabbed through the roof and struck the hearth fire, spraying sparks and coals in every direction. Again and again the beak struck, snapping and swiping, while a purple tongue lashed with frenzied anger between the two halves.

Ilgra shouted and smote the beak upon the side and spoke a word of weirding: garjzla, or light.

A ruddy flash blinded her, and with a deafening screech, the beak withdrew. Then the hall shuddered, and two sets of huge, hooked claws began to rip at the roof, pulling the timbered beams apart. Blasts of swirling snow poured in through the rents.

“Run!” shouted Ilgra to her mother and sister, and together they fled the hall.

Outside, in the cold and the dark, Ilgra heard more shrieks, and as her blood curdled in her veins, she saw squatting atop the peak of their hall a firelit monstrosity. The creature was grey and hairless and lean as a starveling. Bat wings hung from its shoulders, and at the end of its ropy neck was a gaunt and narrow skull set with a pair of enormous black eyes—bulging and devoid of white—and then the long dagger of its beak. Across the village, tattered sheets of snow parted to reveal a second monster prowling between the buildings, pecking at the Horned as they ran, crimson streaks of gore banding its beak.

The creatures reminded Ilgra not of any beast of earth or sky, but rather of beings from ancient legend: the loathsome Nrech. Killers of Svarvok’s infant sons. Eaters of Horned. Foul shadows that stalked the land of the dead, picking clean the bones of dishonored warriors.

Terror poisoned her thoughts.

As if in response, the near creature turned its head and darted snake-like toward Ilgra and her family. They ran, and for a brief while, the storm hid them. Ilgra heard Arvog and Moqtar and Razhag and the rest of the warriors shouting as they strove to fight the Nrech. Through gaps in the snow, she glimpsed the defenders gathered by torchlight, holding spears pointed toward the oncoming monstrosities. But the creatures were too big and too fast; they towered over even the Anointed, and their beaks were like those of cranes—quick and deadly as they jabbed through the clotted air.

Ilgra raised her staff then and set forth to work what magic she could. But her weirding had no power over the Nrech; they were somehow shielded against her words, and all her attacks went awry. Nor could she blind or bind or otherwise slow them.

Ahead of her, she saw Elgha speared by one of the Nrech, speared and eaten, the starveling consuming the Herndall with two gulping motions. Razhag ran forth and was knocked aside, with bloody wounds torn across his arms.

The familiar heaviness of despair weighed upon Ilgra’s heart. There was no stopping the Nrech. She looked to Kulkaras, hidden within the baffling smear of the blizzard, and for the first and only time, Ilgra wished for the help of Vêrmund the Grim. And she wondered why the miserable old worm hadn’t risen in protest, as he had once before.

The wind grew stronger until it moaned with dire voice through her horns, and Ilgra realized; the storm had dampened the sounds of the attack, hid the clamor of fear and death within its folds. The dragon could not have heard upon his lofty perch.

Ilgra knew then what must be done, though the thought replaced her despair with shriveling fear.

With both her hands, she planted Gorgoth upright in the snow, and she spoke a word of weirding to the wind, and for a span, the air grew clear and still. Then, from her knotted belt, Ilgra took her father’s horn, and she sounded it with all her hope and might, and the brazen call rang forth throughout the valley.

Twice more Ilgra blew upon the horn. Then one of the Nrech came crawling toward her, and she allowed the snow to close in around her once again.

Yet still no response returned from the crown of Kulkaras. No hint of Vêrmund stirring. No hope of calamitous rescue. This time the dragon’s indifference would be the death of them.

Believing her gambit had failed, Ilgra found her family and started with them toward a burrow where they might hide.

And then…she heard the sound of their destroyer, and for once she was glad. She heard the rumble of Vêrmund’s wrath, and the air convulsed with a jarring thud, and a blast of wind from the dragon’s wings swept aside the falling snow in whorls and pennants and twisting braids.

In the darkness cleared, the Nrech crouched, shrieking with eager hate. They leaped to flight and climbed with startling speed toward the bulky, firelit mass of Vêrmund descending from above.

“Go,” Ilgra said, pushing her mother and sister toward the burrow. But she herself stayed; not even the threat of death could tear her away.

Vêrmund roared and seared the night sky with flames. Quick as sparrows, the Nrech swooped away and flew around either side of the dragon and began to peck and claw at his back. The worm bellowed in pain, tucked in his wings, and dove to ground in a meadow near the village. The creatures followed, harrying him closely, nipping and biting and tearing at his wings.

Ilgra rose from hiding and started to run toward her hut by the dam. The villagers had fled their halls, and from the cover of the forest, Arvog hailed her, motioned for her to join him.

Instead, she lowered her head as if to ram her foes and increased her speed.

Behind her, Vêrmund continued to bellow with pain and anger, cries Ilgra had long wished to hear of him but that now only filled her with dread. She glanced from the dark path before her, checking the positions of the nightmares fighting.

The Nrech were faster than the old worm, and they seemed accustomed to contending with dragons, for they knew when to dodge his fire and how also to avoid his teeth, talons, and tail. Vêrmund snapped and snarled as he tried to lure them within range of his deadly claws, but the grey creatures were too smart and stayed at a safe distance, moving in only when the dragon’s back was turned.

The three giants battled across the fields, and the mountains rang with the clamor, a horrendous sound. Gouts of liquid flame sprayed the landscape, and along the edges of the forest, the tips of branches caught fire—makeshift torches bright enough to illuminate the whole of the valley, though they sputtered beneath their load of snow.

Vêrmund slammed his tail into the ground, and so great was the impact, it shook Ilgra off her feet, sent her tumbling forward onto her face. The crusted snow cut her brow, and she grunted as the air rushed from her lungs. Hot blood poured over her eyes, blinding her. She shook her head, sprang back up, and continued running.

The Nrech were ripping bleeding chunks from Vêrmund’s scaled length; his natural armor provided little protection against their beaks. His roars acquired a desperate edge, a wounded bull faced with a pair of red-toothed mountain cats, savage and merciless.

And still Ilgra ran. Her once-broken leg lacked strength. Her breath burned in her throat. She could barely see the path rising before her and, beside it, the dark crevice of the ravine.

A blob of fluttering fire arced past, and she ducked out of instinct. The fire splashed against a nearby rock, a welcome light upon the glittering snow.

Below, in the depths of the gorge, her small flock yammered with terror. She heard the pen give way before their panicked efforts, and then the animals fled the confines of the ravine, bleating all the while. She did not mind. Bait they had been, but now they might perhaps survive.

At last Ilgra’s destination came in sight: the dam, mantled with cobwebs of silver frost. With loping steps, Ilgra climbed the bank and stopped upon the shore of ice-capped water.

She stood, panting and coughing, blood streaming from her brow—stood and looked back at the mangled earth where Vêrmund and the Nrech still contended in mortal combat. The beasts had pressed Vêrmund back against the edge of the trees, where the rise of the land toward the mountains limited his movement. Even as Ilgra watched, one of the creatures pounced on the dragon’s left wing, bearing it to the ground, while the other clawed its way across his ribs until it reached the base of his neck.

Vêrmund writhed in a frantic attempt to shake off his attackers, but the monstrosities kept a firm hold on him. The one clinging to his neck pecked, and the evil old worm coiled in upon himself, hiding his head under his body.

The Nrech shrieked with triumph as they closed in on the dragon’s exposed side, their wings held high.

“No!” said Ilgra, afraid she’d missed her chance. She could break the dam, but the creatures were too far away to be assured of their deaths (and Vêrmund’s as well). Somehow she had to draw them closer, where the wall of water could do its work.

Desperate, Ilgra reached for Vêrmund with her mind. She found him, but she could not make him understand; the dragon was too addled by pain to notice her feeble thoughts. In comparison to his consciousness, Ilgra was a nothing, a guttering fleck of light beside the raging conflagration that was the dragon’s inner being.

With a start, Ilgra returned to herself. Convulsions of panic seized her heart. Time was short; if she did not act now, all would be lost. They might finally be rid of Vêrmund, but in his place they would be left with the Nrech, and the Nrech had not the restraint of the dragon. They would kill every one of the Skgaro and make a nest of their bones upon the crest of Kulkaras. This she knew from the stories.

On the claw-torn fields, Vêrmund thrashed beneath the pecking monstrosities.

Then an idea dawned bright and fierce upon Ilgra. The horn had roused the old worm from his sleep and summoned him to the fight. If he heard it again, perhaps he would understand, perhaps…

She took a half step forward, lifted her father’s horn, placed it against her lips, and blew forth with such strength that the echoes chased themselves from one end of the valley to the other. Beyond the village, she saw her clanmates emerge from the fringe of flickering shadow and look toward her hut, frightened, curious, wondering—she felt sure—if her call were a summons.

It was, but not for them. Ilgra waved at them to keep back, though she doubted they could see. She hoped they would stay well clear of the ravine, lest they be killed or swept away.

She was about to sound the horn a second time when Vêrmund uttered a crackling roar and heaved upward, tossing the flapping monstrosities to either side. Battered and wounded though he was, with blood streaming from scores of wounds, the dragon was still stronger by far than either of the Nrech.

He staggered forward, each crashing step causing Ilgra to lose her balance and snow to fall in sifting veils from the silent trees. The Nrech shrieked as one and bounded after, throwing themselves at Vêrmund’s neck and shoulders. The dragon snarled and leaped toward the mouth of the ravine, half opening his tattered wings so his leap became a long glide.

As Vêrmund landed amid the icy drifts within the narrow gorge, he sent a spray of glittering crystals singing upward.

And Ilgra knew her moment had arrived.

She took her staff then, and with it smote the top of the dam. In a voice terrible to hear, she uttered a single weirding word: jierda—break! The word was a key with which she unlocked the tempest of power trapped within Gorgoth and sent the whole whirling confusion into the stones of the dam.

The dam cracked and shuddered, and the bank Ilgra stood upon sagged alarmingly. She scrambled back to more solid footing.

Granite split with explosive force, and ice too, as the surface of the pool broke asunder, shooting frozen shards in every direction. Then, with a rumble louder than Vêrmund’s deepest roars, the dam gave way, and a wall of water, ice, and windfell trees raced down the ravine and slammed into Vêrmund and the Nrech. The churning torrent washed over the three, enveloping them in a surge of foam, and Ilgra heard the creak and pop of colliding ice and the groan of twisting timber.

Beneath the water, huge shapes turned and thrashed before falling still. The spikes along Vêrmund’s back soon breached the surface—he was too large to stay submerged for long—but they remained where they were, motionless: a stationary sieve that logs and branches fetched up against until his back was a mound of jagged wood.

Ilgra clung to the ground as it rolled beneath her, and she prayed to Rahna and Svarvok and all the other gods besides.

The water was swift to subside, draining away through the fields to the south, carrying with it a pair of bleating goats. Then Ilgra braced herself on Gorgoth and slowly got to her feet.

She beheld her handiwork. There, in a crumpled heap in the now-empty ravine, lay the mighty Vêrmund, and with him the two monstrosities: one beneath the worm’s serrated claws, its neck crooked at an unnatural angle, and one deposited some distance to the east in a tangle of grey-skinned limbs.

The vast bellows of Vêrmund’s ribs still moved, but feebly, and the wrinkled old worm otherwise displayed no sign of life. No hint of smoke trailed from his nostrils. No glow of fire emanated from between his gaping jaws. And no sign of movement appeared between his slitted lids.

A rising, bursting feel of triumph swelled Ilgra’s breast. Now was her chance! If she struck quick and true, she might finally rid the world of Vêrmund’s blight and finally be avenged of her father’s death. She would carve out the worm’s blackened heart, and when it was hers, burn it before the gods as thanks for their favor.

She hurried down the path along the ravine, moving as fast as her leg would allow. The dragon’s breathing was already growing louder; she had only a brief while in which to act.

Just as she reached the base of the hill, a voice rang out:

“Ilgra!”

Her sister ran toward Vêrmund from the edge of the forest, a knife held high in one hand, teeth bared in a battle face.

“Back!” Ilgra shouted, but Yhana listened not. She seemed intent on cutting the throat of the dragon herself, and it struck Ilgra then—for the first time—that her sister was no longer a youngling. She was full-grown and as willing to fight as any of the Skgaro.

A clutch of conflicting emotions warred within Ilgra. Selfishness and concern and surprise. Then she decided, and with her decision came a sense of solidarity; they could kill the dragon together.

Before she could call out to Yhana again, Ilgra was horrified to see the far Nrech stir. Rising on broken limbs, it swung its head back and forth, blindly scenting for prey. A jagged shriek tore free of the creature’s throat, and it began to scrabble after Yhana, dragging its useless wings across the frozen mess of the field.

At the sound, a shudder ran the length of Vêrmund’s body. And Ilgra knew, if she helped Yhana, she would lose all chance of killing the dragon. He would regain his feet, and even wounded and weakened, he still far outmatched them. Ilgra no longer had the great storehouse of energy in Gorgoth to rely upon, only that of her body, and the strength of her body paled in comparison with that of the dragon’s.

The strain of anguish rent Ilgra’s heart, but in the end, there was only one choice. Howling with fear and fury, she charged past the fallen dragon and to her sister’s side.

As the snapping Nrech fell upon them, Ilgra raised Gorgoth, drew upon the reserves of power within her flesh, and shouted, “Brisingr!” A fountain of fire erupted from the end of the staff and bathed the monstrosity’s head with a torrent of flame.

The Nrech recoiled and shrieked again, so loud that Ilgra lost her will and the fire faded to dark. In that instant, she knew with certainty she was about to die, eaten by a nightmare from ages past. And her sister too, slain by the failure of Ilgra’s ambitions.

Then the clacking beak of the Nrech stabbed toward them and the earth shook with sudden violence. A streak of black scales appeared overhead, a foul wind swept the field, and a great crack sounded, frightening in its deathly finality.

Ilgra cowered, covering her sister with her arms. When she dared look again, she saw the black bulk of Vêrmund standing over them, stark against the swirling snow. And hanging between the worm’s enormous jaws, the now-limp monstrosity, its body pierced through and through by rows of glistening teeth.

The godkillers were slain.

For a moment, Ilgra felt relief. Gratitude, even. But both reactions paled before a sickening sense of doom. She had been so close to her desire. So close, and yet once again it had slipped her grasp. And now she and Yhana were caught beneath the devouring dragon.

Vêrmund snuffed and let fall the grey corpse, obscene in its hairless shape. Then he shook his head as a dog might, and drops of steaming blood rained upon the flood-swept land. One bead, dark and gleaming, splattered across Ilgra’s arm, and she cried out as it burned her skin, hot as molten lead.

Vêrmund took notice. He looked down and then lowered his head until the blazing void of his eye hung before them, terrifying in its nearness.

Ilgra stifled the urge to flee, for they could not hope to outrun the dragon. Nor could they hope to best it with blades or weirding. Defiant to the end, she stood her tallest while Yhana clung to her arm.

Then Ilgra felt the dragon’s mind upon her own, huge and bleak and daunting. From it came no thanks, no approval, no care or consideration. But there was one thought, one impression, Ilgra received from the worm:

Recognition. No longer was Vêrmund indifferent. He acknowledged her existence, and from him came a sense of interest, detached and impersonal though it was. He might still view her as prey, but by her actions, Ilgra had earned a measure of regard from the battered old worm.

It was no small thing.

Seven heartbeats they remained as thus, locked in close embrace. Seven heartbeats only, and then the towering immensity of his mind withdrew, and Vêrmund snorted and his hot breath washed over Ilgra in a choking wave of sulfurous scent.

Her vision grew blurred, and Ilgra dropped to one knee, faint. Then Vêrmund stepped over them, the pallid scales of his belly rimmed with twinkling fire from the forest, and the chill of his shadow lifted from their shoulders.

Ilgra screwed shut her eyes and stayed where she had fallen, stayed until the ground grew still and the sound of Vêrmund’s tread had faded to a distant toll.

It was the touch of her sister’s hand that roused her. “Ilgra! He is gone! We are saved.”

Only then did she stand and look.

The worm had a wounded wing; he could not fly. Instead, he crawled up the face of bold Kulkaras with slow and weary steps, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken trees. He seemed like to fall, never to rise again, and Ilgra wondered if they might yet be freed of him.

She had to know.

Ere long, the sheets of snow obscured the dragon. Yhana tugged on Ilgra’s tunic, urged her to leave, said, “You have done all you can. Our father’s death is not avenged, but we have honored his memory. There is no more. Come now.” But Ilgra refused, preferring to stand and watch and listen to Vêrmund’s painful progress.

The order of things was not yet settled.

Farther up the valley, the rest of the Skgaro began to emerge from hiding. Arvog and several of the other warriors trotted out with weapons in hand, joined Ilgra and Yhana there on that muddy tract.

They checked the Nrech to ensure the monstrosities would bedevil their clan never again. Then they spoke to Ilgra, thanked her, praised her, cajoled her, berated her. But regardless, she would not move.

At last they left her, Yhana as well—left her that they might tend their injured and save their belongings from what halls were damaged.

And there Ilgra stayed, until she heard the distant sound of talons scraping against stone, and then from the peak of Kulkaras, Vêrmund the Grim let loose a mighty roar, and he painted the clouds with fire such that brightened the whole of the night.

Then he grew still and silent, and Ilgra knew: the dragon would not die, and they, poor sufferers, would not be rid of him.

Ilgra grasped her staff with both hands and leaned upon it. Her heart was too small to contain all her feeling; she shouted after Vêrmund, though the dragon would not hear, and every part of her was wracked with turmoil.

Ragged gaps appeared in the snow as the storm began to clear, and through them she saw the crown of Kulkaras, and perched thereon, the looming shape of Vêrmund the Grim.

Ilgra stared at him for a silent while. Then she breathed deep of the freezing air and, with her exhale, released her torment. So. One thing had become clear: there would always be a stalking hunger waiting to eat them. If not Vêrmund, then the monstrosities. If not the monstrosities, then some other, equally horrible creature. It was a basic fact of life, as true for the Horned as it was for every other being. None were exempt: not bear nor wolf nor cat nor even the most fearsome of hunters. All fell prey in time. It was not a question of if but when.

Vêrmund had saved them from the monstrosities. Without him, the Nrech might have slain the entire village. Yet Ilgra knew they could expect no great mercy from him thereafter. It was not in his nature. He would continue to fly down upon them and eat their herds and trample their fields and slaughter those foolish enough to attack him. So it was and always would be.

Someday Ilgra would again face the dragon. Someday he would come ravening toward her, or else she would once more climb Kulkaras and go to meet him in single combat. It was a certainty. Whenever they met, whether next year or long after her hair turned grey, Ilgra felt sure of one thing: that Vêrmund would know her and remember her, and though he would give her no quarter, she would at least have the satisfaction of his recognition.

But for now, her quest was at an end. The dam was broken and the pool of water drained. Likewise Gorgoth. And though Vêrmund was sore wounded, Ilgra no longer had the means or inclination to confront him. Not then. Nor did she believe it would do any good. Hurt or not, the dragon was more than a match for her, for the Skgaro, and even for creatures born of darkest legend, as were the Nrech.

A figure came walking from the village: her mother, bearing a blanket and salve for wounds. She wrapped the blanket around Ilgra’s shoulders and applied the salve to her arm, where Vêrmund’s blood had burned her raw.

Said her mother, “Come now, Ilgra-daughter, leave this unhappy place. Return with me to where you belong.”

And Ilgra felt as if woken from a dream.

She turned her back, then—turned her back on the worm resting in his bloody slumber; turned her back on tall, snow-mantled Kulkaras; turned her back on the remnants of the dam and on her hut besides. She turned her back on all those things and, with her mother, started the slow walk to the village, leaning upon her staff with every step.

No longer would she stand apart. That time had passed. Once again she would join in the clan’s daily life. She would claim a mate, she thought—Arvog, perhaps—and bear his children. In all manner possible, she would drink to the dregs each day and worry not what fate might bring.

Ilgra looked at the staff. It was Gorgoth no more, she decided, but rather Warung, or Acceptance. And the now-empty sapphire a legacy in waiting, a potential that she might, with time and effort, restore to its former glory.

She straightened her back and bared her teeth, feeling given new purpose. For her name was Ilgra Nrech-Slayer, and she feared no evil.

CHAPTER IX New Beginnings

The last words of Irsk’s telling faded to silence in the main hall of the hold, high on Mount Arngor. Then the Urgal struck the drum between his knees, and a dull, booming note reverberated off the stone walls, marking an end to the story.

Eragon blinked and rubbed his face, feeling as if he too were waking from a dream. Around the hearth, the rest of the Urgals likewise stirred, statues coming to life.

With a growl, Skarghaz shoved himself to his feet and strode over to where Irsk sat. He grabbed the smaller Urgal by the horns and, with a violent, jerking motion, butted him in the head.

The Urgals roared with laughter, and Skarghaz said, “Well done, Irsk! Well said. You do your clan proud.”

The impact knocked Irsk back, but he bared his teeth in a fierce grin and—with just as much vigor—butted Skarghaz in return. “Honor for the clan, Nar Skarghaz.”

The fire had burned down to a bed of coals, and a chill had crept into the air while Irsk told his tale. Eragon glanced out the windows, wondering at the hour. The sky was black, without so much as a glimmer of the silver moon, and even the round-eyed owls that roosted in the dark pine trees were silent in their nests. It was late—far later than he made a habit of staying up—but he didn’t mind.

“That was a most excellent story, Irsk,” he said, and bowed as best he could while sitting. “Thank you.” He understood now why the Kull had requested that particular story, and Eragon was glad of it. It seemed there was always something for him to learn, even from the Urgals.

What did you think? he asked Saphira.

Approval radiated from her. I liked Ilgra. And I liked Vêrmund even more. It is only right that the dragon would win.

Eragon smiled slightly. Then he said out loud, “Was that a true story?”

“Of course it was a true story!” exclaimed Skarghaz, stomping back to his chair. “We would not tell you a story that said wrong things about the world, Rider.”

“No, I mean, did it really happen? Did Ilgra actually exist? And Vêrmund, and the mountain Kulkaras?”

Skarghaz scratched his chin, a thoughtful look in his yellow eyes. “It is an old story, Rider. Perhaps going back to the time before our kind crossed the sea. But I think the story happened as it says….Even to this day, the Urgralgra often name their daughters Ilgra, and because of her, every one of us knows that there is a Vêrmund we cannot best. It is a good lesson to learn, I think.”

“A good lesson indeed,” said Eragon. In some ways, he had defeated his own Vêrmund in the person of Galbatorix, but there were still things in life he could not overcome—things that no one could. It was a sobering thought. When Eragon was younger, the knowledge would have bothered him to no end. Now, though, he understood the wisdom of acceptance. Even if it didn’t make him happy, it at least gave him peace, and that was no small gift.

Happiness, Eragon had decided, was a fleeting, futile thing to pursue. Contentment, on the other hand, was a far more worthwhile goal.

“The Anointed,” he said, “are those—”

“What in our tongue we call the Kull,” said Irsk.

Eragon had thought as much. “And the Nrech, they are Lethrblaka?” A shadow seemed to descend upon the hall as he named the creatures.

Skarghaz coughed. “Gah! Yes, if you must speak of the blasted things, yes. We are fortunate you killed the last of them, Rider. And you as well, dragon.” He nodded toward Saphira, who blinked once in return.

“If we are so lucky,” said Eragon under his breath. Many a night he still wondered about Galbatorix’s claim to have hidden more of the Ra’zac’s eggs throughout Alagaësia. For Ra’zac, once grown, transformed into Lethrblaka, as caterpillars into butterflies. Even with all Eragon knew of magic, the thought of having to again face the creatures, Ra’zac or Lethrblaka both, was unsettling indeed.

A commotion sounded at the back of the hall, and at the same time, he sensed a disturbance among the Eldunarí in the Hall of Colors.

Alarmed, he struggled to his feet. Saphira hissed and did the same, her claws scrabbling on the floor.

Blödhgarm, Ästrith, Rílven, and the rest of the elves hurried toward them from across the hall. The elves were smiling—beautiful, broad, white-toothed smiles—and their steps were quick and light. It was such a contrast with their usual decorum, Eragon wasn’t sure how to react. He would have found scowls and blank, impassive expressions far less unnerving.

“Ebrithil,” said Blödhgarm, the midnight-blue fur along his shoulders rippling with excitement.

“What’s wrong?” said Eragon. Behind him, he heard stomps and clatters as the Urgals gathered in ranks, as if they expected the elves to attack. At the same time, the minds of the Eldunarí were a riot of conflicting words, thoughts, images, and emotions—a storm of sensations that made Eragon wince and that defied his attempts to decipher.

Saphira shook herself and growled, baring her long white fangs.

Blödhgarm’s smile widened, and he laughed in a delighted fashion. “Nothing is wrong, Ebrithil. Quite the opposite, in fact; everything is right with the world.”

Then Ästrith said, “One of the eggs has hatched.”

Eragon blinked. “One of—”

“A dragon has hatched, Ebrithil!” said Blödhgarm. “Another dragon is born!”

Saphira craned back her neck and crowed toward the shadowed ceiling, and the Urgals stomped and shouted until the entire hall rang with the sounds of celebration.

Eragon grinned, and he threw his cup over his head and let loose with an entirely undignified whoop. All of their hard work—all of the late nights and early mornings, the spells that left him exhausted and the endless worrying about provisions and politics and people—all of it had been worth it.

A new beginning had dawned for the dragons.