Dennis McKiernan - Dragondoom

“Attend!” he hissed, and scuttling Rūcks within the chamber froze in terror, quailing, and ceased their pointless activity at the banquet table, ceased setting places that would not be used, ceased clearing it away but moments afterward. And they rushed before the throne and flung themselves face down upon the floor, grovelling before the dark presence.

The wickedness coiled past their prostrate forms and to the head of the table, and Foul Folk sprang up and stood behind each chair, as if serving guests at a great feast.

Darkness filled the chamber, and a whispering voice hissed forth, a voice speaking to empty chairs, boasting of deeds done.

“Centuries agone it was I who lulled a Dragon into true sleep,” hissed the shadow. “Not just any Dragon, but Black Kalgalath, himself.

“And I whispered to him of the threat of the Kammerling. Fool that he was, he thought that the hammer was meant for him, as I knew he would. And I played upon these fears, telling him that it was the inattentive Utruni who warded that most dangerous of tokens deep within their halls far down in the living stone of Mithgar. And so I spoke of a time soon to be, when the bright Moon at night would slide into darkness, eclipsed for a while by shadow, a time when the earth would tremble, a time when the Hall of the Giants most certainly would be empty, a time when the uncaring Giants would leave the hammer unguarded, a time when a Drake could enter and take that which threatened, and bear it to one of power who would guard it most zealously.

“I whispered to him the plan that would assure this end, speaking Andrak’s true name into the sleeping Dragon’s ear.

“And Black Kalgalath, fool Kalgalath, took the bait, never knowing that it was I who set this scheme before him.

“When came the eclipse, it was at a time I knew the wandering stars would also be aligned. And I reached down and caused the fault to yield, the stone to slip, the earth to quake in violence.

“Then did the Giants rush through the rock to smooth the join, to ease the strain, to quell the tremor.

“Then was the Hall abandoned, as I knew it would be.

“Then did the Drake slither down into the juddering earth and take the token from its place of safety-safe from all, perhaps, but Wizards and Dragons working in concert, even though the Dragon knew it not, and then only at the time of the Grand Alignment-to take this token from its place of safety, the Drake bearing it to the holt of Andrak, a place where it could be stolen by the strong or the cunning or the fortunate, or by those of the prophecy, a prophecy made possible by me.

“This was my plan: that sooner or later someone would steal the Rage Hammer, someone with the skill to use it-”

— Of a sudden, the black granite chamber juddered, shock hammering through, as if the very world itself had been struck a whelming blow. Stone jolted and shuddered, crockery and pewter rattling aclatter, Rūcks crying out in fear, reeling back, terrified eyes staring at the stone above, fearing that it would come crashing down.

The dark hall filled with blackness as the malevolent presence within sought to determine the cause of this battering, his senses swelling upward and outward, seeking the culprit, only to discover that it came from afar, from southward, whence had flared the Rage Hammer, now quenched.

“Out,” he hissed, and lackeys scrambled to obey, vacating the chamber, fleeing their master’s wrath.

The darkness gathered upon the ebon throne as Modru cast forth his mind, reaching out unto the world, reaching forth unto the Grimwall Mountains, seeking the vacant mind tended by those who watched Dragonslair from afar, seeking the one who would serve as his host. Yet, no empty mind, no hollow vessel, was waiting, waiting the touch of the Master, waiting to be filled with his essence.

It was as if the surrogate had been destroyed.

Angered, once again Modru cast forth his mind, this time seeking the one who served as his host within Andrak’s strongholt. But he was once more thwarted, for again no empty mind stood waiting.

Here too, it was as if the vessel had been destroyed.

Enraged, Modru shouted his anger, and elsewhere within, Rūcks scuttled and scrabbled and bolted to far chambers, running, hiding, scrambling ’neath tables and chairs and beds, seeking safety in closets and recesses, niches and coverts, fleeing to anywhere they might escape his fury.

And Modru cast forth his mind yet a third time, now seeking not Human vessels, but instead one of the Foul Folk deep within the twisting cracks far below the earth in distant Carph. And the great malevolence rushed into the waiting emissary, filling the empty mind, possessing it, evil glaring forth to see lackeys grovelling upon the stone.

“Go!” he hissed. “Unto Andrak’s holt. Unto Dragonslair. Take my surrogate so that I may see.”

Then the great evil was gone, fled back unto the dark domain deep below the icy Barrens; while behind, shaken Spawn looked into the drooling face before them, now empty of all spark. And then they turned away and began gathering together that which would be needed in the long weeks ahead, as they prepared to set forth to do their Master’s bidding.

And far to the north in the frozen realm, the whelming wind thundered down upon the frigid wastes.

Spring, 3E1603

[ The Present ]

Thork wept even as he awakened, great uncontrollable sobs racking his frame, tears streaming down his face. .

Beloved.

. . an image of copper hair and green eyes. .

Great hands gently cradled him, and a huge face gazed down upon his own, sapphires peering. .

Again he awakened and still he wept, yet now he was in total blackness, massive arms about him, rock splitting in twain to the fore and sealing shut behind, as he was borne down through cloven stone.

As before, it was pitch dark when next Thork came to his senses. He could hear water running nearby, and the earth trembled, and he had a vague memory of a pounding, a hammering, a signalling deep within the stone. His face was in pain, as if from burns, as well as his right forearm and the calves of both legs. Gingerly he touched his cheek, finding agony and sear. Crawling toward the sound of water, he moved but a few feet, coming to a shallow stream. The bourne was icy, and he plunged his face into the rush, gritting his teeth against the shock and pain, letting the cold remove the fire. Too, he held his right arm under, feeling the char ebb.

Twice he did this, thrice, then again; each time puffing and blowing as he came up for gasps of air.

Again he felt his seared face. Cautiously. Gently probing. His beard was burned to the flesh up the right side. His hair, too was partially burnt away. The sleeve on his right arm was charred, the skin below in pain. Too, his breeks were burned, at his calves, the flesh there raw. He swung about and sat with his legs submerged, water rushing o’er.

When he had been afire, he could not recall.

Still the earth trembled, juddering with shocks tremoring through the stone.

When his legs felt better, slowly he stood. “Where am I?” he asked the shuddering darkness, his voice hoarse and harsh. .

Where am I, am I, am. .

. . echoes casting back from an unseen cavern.

“Thou art with thy friends, Friend.” The voice was deep, resonate, and came from the blackness behind.

Thork whirled, hands groping for axe or hammer, finding nought.

“Who speaks?”

“Thou mayest hight me Orth,” came the voice, the words in a form of Common, yet ancient, archaic.

“I cannot see you, Orth.”