Elizabeth Heydon - Elegy for a Lost Star

Finally, when he turned back to them, they were standing, the light of inspiration shining from their faces.

Grunthor eyed them suspiciously.

“All right,” he demanded, “what are ya thinkin’?”

The dragon was too lost in the search for a name, too intent on finding the woman from the grotto, to pay much attention to the movement of the Bolg. She was aware of it, of course, in infinite detail; the minutiae of the inner realm of the Cauldron, everything else within five miles, was apparent to her. But her mind, fractured and limited as it was, obsessed as it was, considered the movements nothing more than the pathetic scramblings of the equivalent of insects. She had destroyed hundreds of them with little more than a breath; she would destroy more before she was done, but whatever meaningless attempts they were making to defend against her wrath were not worth the diversion of her attention from the search for the woman.

She could sense a rush to retrieve the dead, the movements of the old and the young to deeper bunkers, lower ground, an effort that amused her. Moreover, she did not sense the presence of many weapons. The bows and crossbows had proven useless against her, a fact that had sent her already-insane sense of invulnerability even higher.

Had she been more cognizant, more aware of her surroundings, she might have noticed the ruins of an ancient instrumentality that she had loathed in another life almost as much as she loathed the golden-haired woman in this one. When she was in human form, the ruler of a great nation and the champion of a mighty army, her first order in war had been to destroy that artifact; it had taken her soldiers almost five hundred years to accomplish that directive.

But that memory, along with most of the others she had made in her long lifetime, was buried deep in the recesses of the Past, where she could not find it.

Where is she? the dragon demanded of the evanescent winds. Where is the woman I seek? And her name! I want her name!

The wind howled around the mountain crag, saying nothing; very few words were spoken close enough to the summit to linger there, and those that were had blown away, off into the wide world.

Her fury returning, the beast rained fire down again from the mountain summit; no Bolg were above ground by now, so she had to content herself with the destruction of a few outposts and watchtowers, taking little satisfaction in watching them burn.

Perhaps I’m not able to hear because I am hungry , she thought, remembering with pleasure the feast in the Hintervold, not just the satisfying fullness of meat, but the joy of destruction, the orgiastic sensation of utter fear and helplessness in the faces of the hunters. Those few on the Heath were but appetizers. Well, we can rectify that .

Her dragon sense told her that the majority of the population on the western side of the canyon was cowering in bunkers deep within the mountain, but that a substantial cadre had remained behind, large enough to provide a decent meal.

She slithered down the crag, toward the tunnels leading into the Cauldron.

The first shaft she came to was narrow; she did not know it, but it was merely a ventilation duct, used to circulate the heat from the forges into the tunnels to warm them in winter, and the cool wind of the mountain to bring fresh air in all other seasons. She considered squeezing through, but noticed another, wider tunnel nearby, one that led to a central duct system, through which she could chase down anything that she wanted.

Quite a bit of the remaining prey was at the end of it.

She crawled across the lip of its ledge and into the tunnel, her eyes gleaming with blue fire.

Grunthor could sense the change in the earth as soon as the dragon entered the tunnel, stripping the lore from the land as she did.

“Ya bloody ’arpy,” he muttered under his breath. “Thought Oi’d buried ya three years ago. Well, keep comin’, darlin’. Oi’ll kill ya as often as need be.”

He waited until she had come to the first bend before turning to Kubila, who was waiting beside him, ready to deliver his orders.

“Now would be good,” the Sergeant said casually.

The messenger nodded, and sped off like an arrow on the string.

Down the empty corridors and tunnels he ran, his route planned out to the footstep. His destination was almost a quarter mile away, but Kubila could cover that distance in a little over a minute.

He could see the light in the open doorway; the others were awaiting his signal.

“Now!” he shouted, still a few paces outside the central tunnel.

The Archons waiting past the door heard and nodded to each other.

Trug, the Voice, echoed the Sergeant’s order into the central speaking tube, the instrument through which his words would be heard throughout the mountains.

“Now!”

Dreekak, Master of Tunnels and responsible for the network of vents through which the beast was traveling, seized the great valve and turned the wheel with all his might until it opened the floodgates.

All over the Cauldron, his tunnel workers were doing the same.

The dragon felt a shift in the air of the tunnel as the vacuum was released, but too intent on her prey to be distracted, she continued crawling forward until her sensitive nostrils were suddenly, viciously assaulted with the stench of raw sewage.

Which had been released in one enormous flood from the central cistern and all the collection pipes simultaneously.

And was heading, with all the force the ventilation system’s pumps could muster, directly for her.

Shock flooded the dragon’s awareness; she was overwhelmed with nausea, made even more acute by the sensitivity of her dragon sense. What to an ordinary being would have been revolting, vomitorious, was utterly incapacitating to the wyrm. All of her senses, her motor abilities, and her equilibrium were immediately unbalanced by the onslaught of offal and excrement that was rolling in a great, odious wave toward her.

She tried to right herself, to turn in the tunnel and escape, to burrow into the earth, even, but the tunnels built originally by her long-dead, much hated husband had been fashioned from and reinforced with steel, and so did not yield to her. She could only roil helplessly, twisted in a tangle of draconic arms and legs to which she was still not totally accustomed, when the sea of filth blasted around the turn and swelled over her, choking her, threatening to drown her.

In hrekin .

Gasping in horror, swallowing and vomiting simultaneously, the beast was subsumed in the mudslide of Bolgish waste, made even more foul by the vagaries of their diet. She struggled to breathe but her nostrils were filled with feces; she kicked her taloned feet, trying in vain to gain purchase on the tunnel wall, finally being flipped ignominiously onto her head as a great plug of sewage formed around her, obstructing the tunnel completely.

For a moment.

Then the pressure from the ventilation system backed up sufficiently to blast the clog of dragon and a kingdom’s worth of waste out of the tunnel and into the canyon below.

Whereupon the mountain guards, under the direction of Yen the broadsmith, Greel the master of the mines, and Vrith, the lame accountant, unleashed a hail of glass-shard-imbued boulders down on her.

Sickened and bruised, the beast lay at the bottom of the canyon for a moment, trying to return to consciousness. In the distance, her dragon sense noted weakly that the catapults on the ledges above her were training upon her again.

Heedless of direction, with the last of her strength, the beast burrowed hastily into the ground of the canyon floor, following the long-dead riverbed out of the kingdom of the Bolg to the north, where she collapsed in pain and exhaustion.