Elizabeth Heydon - Elegy for a Lost Star

Another round of arrow fire and crossbow bolts were unleashed; they bounced off her ironlike hide, futile. The sensation was little more than a tickle; in fact, it delighted her to the point that the dragon began to laugh, a hideous guttural sound that formed in the very air and echoed harshly off the canyon.

Then, crouching low to the ground, she slithered along it, dragging power from it, devouring the lore of the Bolglands as she devoured the unfortunate soldiers trapped on her side of the canyon, sucking the power into herself, becoming more invulnerable each moment that passed, as she stripped power from the earth.

Able to do so because the king who claimed that power was not there to defend it.

Making her way to the summit of the nearest crag, to taste the wind, searching for any sign she might find of the woman.

Grunthor knew within seconds that the dragon had come, though where it had come from, and who it was, still was unknown to him.

He tossed back his head and roared aloud, a war scream known for its frightening effects on men and horses alike, startling the Archons and tribal leaders with whom he had been meeting.

“Hrekin!” he shouted, slamming his heavy oak chair back from the meeting table and lunging to his feet. “Jump to! We’re under attack!”

Instantly the chairs were cleared of their occupants as the elite of the arch-Archon’s fighting forces readied for the orders they knew would follow.

“Ralbux, take Harran to the tunnels into Grivven post,” Grunthor commanded. “It’s a dragon, by the feel o’ it; nowhere’s safe, so try and stay low, near somethin’ stone.” The education Archon and the Loremistress nodded and headed to the door of the room; both understood the need to keep alive at all costs their training and knowledge. Without the history Harran had studied, the Bolg would return to the demi-human status they had been saddled with before Achmed, or, more accurately, Rhapsody, came to Ylorc, though both had been trained to fight.

Harran stopped at the threshold.

“Reciting,” she announced; Grunthor’s ears perked up. “Dragons are sensitive to an extreme, a quality commonly known as dragon sense. Within a radius of approximately a league and a half, five miles above ground, or twice that within the earth, their ordinary senses are magnified to five hundred times that of Bolg. Taste, sight, odor, hearing, and tactile senses are extended thus, as well as an inner sense of awareness. The firegems within the belly of any dragon whose scales are based in a red or copper-colored metal contain a chemical commonly known as Red Fire, which burns at one and a half times the temperature of true fire. Being an acid, it is also corrosive. Most vulnerable spots include the eyes, behind the ear hole if one is present, and under the wing, also if one is present.”

“Go!” the Sergeant shouted impatiently. Harran and Ralbux disappeared through the doorway. He exhaled angrily; Grunthor had had more than enough experience with dragons to understand how truly outflanked they were.

Within seconds, thudding bootsteps could be heard approaching rapidly in the inner corridor; the Eyes that survived from the parapets were rushing through the underground tunnels of the Cauldron with their report. While he awaited their intelligence, Grunthor turned to his aide de camp.

“Blast muster,” he ordered. “Get me every bloody commander within earshot o’ this place; all Oi got now is tribal leaders.” The aide fled into the passageway. Grunthor turned to the Archons and pointed to the interior and exterior schematics of Ylorc that hung, rendered in minute detail, on the wall of every interior meeting room.

The Eye spies, their normally dark and hirsute faces stained with ash, came into the room, three in all.

“Report,” Grunthor demanded. His skin, normally the color of old bruises, had flushed to an angry leather color, his amber eyes blazing almost gold.

“Dragon; out of ground above Kraldurge,” said the first of the Eyes in the tongue of his tribe. Grunthor smacked the table angrily, and the shaken man quickly switched into the common dialect. “Copper hide. Keeping to the ground, not taking to the air like one at council. Same color.”

The second Eye nodded. “Torn wing,” he said quickly. “May not be able to fly. Perched on Trexlev crag now, not attacking; seems to be watching or listening.”

“Blasted Heath is burning,” reported the last of the Eyes, a woman. “Brushfires on wintergrass; frozen ground will stop the spread at frost line.”

Grunthor nodded. “Back to yer posts,” he said, then turned to the Archons. “Assessments?”

“Traditional weapons will be useless,” said Yen the broadsmith. “Can’t even use the heat of the forges against a dragon; fire will not harm it. Need special arrows, special blades to pierce dragon hide. We have none.”

“Correction,” Grunthor snarled. “We have one , but o’ course it’s not ’ere , as usual. Next?”

“Breastworks, redoubts, defense, irrigation, and sanitation tunnels will all be vulnerable,” Dreekak, the Master of Tunnels, said solemnly. “Beast can use them as we do; can travel wherever they reach. Our own defenses will work against us in this.”

“Good point,” noted Grunthor with a grudging admiration. “ ’Oo else?”

“Many catapults working,” suggested Vrith. “In peacetime have used them to fling hay and seedbags across the Blasted Heath to deeper settlements. Perhaps rocks, if not weapons, can injure it?”

The mining Archon, Greel, the Face of the Mountain, spoke up quickly.

“Much scrap rock outside of Gurgus from tower rebuilding,” he noted. “Much sharp, full of glass shards. Might even make dragon sick.”

Grunthor’s bulbous lips pressed together appreciatively. “Hmmm,” he said.

“One more thought,” added Trug. “If we knew anything about this dragon, we might have a better idea how to attack it.”

Omet, the only non-Bolg Archon, stood up suddenly. He said nothing; his elevation to his feet was more a sign of a sudden realization than an intention to speak. The Sergeant recognized this, and held up his hand to stem any other commentary.

“You were all here three years ago, when the council was assaulted by the dragon Anwyn?” he asked, trying to recall history in which he had not taken part.

“Yeah,” said Grunthor irritably.

Omet spoke even more slowly and deliberately. “And was not the wing of that dragon injured as well? Didn’t Rhapsody drag her blade through it when the beast had her in the air?”

All sound left the room; the Archons ceased to breathe at the expression on the Sergeant’s face.

“Yeah,” Grunthor said again, a deadly dryness in his voice. “But that bitch is dead; Oi saw ’er fall out o’ the sky, and closed the grave on ’er myself. She’s dead .”

Dreekak coughed nervously. “Late summer, a patrol near the breastworks reported some rumblings in the Moot,” he said quietly. “Thought them to be aftershocks of Gurgus explosion.” His last words came out barely above a whisper. “Sent you the report, sir.”

Grunthor’s face flushed an even deeper shade of purple. He threw back his head and roared again; the blast echoed through the corridors of the Cauldron all the way out to the openings above the canyon, and reverberated below.

The Archons waited for the string of hideous profanities that followed, some in Bolgish, others in Bengard, Grunthor’s mother tongue, to subside before exhaling.

“Hrekin,” the Sergeant muttered finally. “Dragons; ya can’t never get rid of the bastards. Guess ya got to kill ’em more than once. Wonderful.”

The door opened, and eight of his military commanders crowded into the rooms. The Sergeant went over to confer with them about troop position and casualties, while the Archons began quietly conferring among themselves.