Dennis McKiernan - Dragondoom

“And so, we setteth watch upon the holt, waiting for the time that the wards wouldst slip, or waiting for the time that the minor prophecy wouldst be fulfilled: either wouldst do.

“Twelve hundred years passed, and no champion won through, until thou camest with thy companion. And when Andrak wast destroyed, so fell his wards; no longer wert we held at bay. Then couldst we destroy that place of evil, that place where Lithon wast taken and bound and slain. Then couldst we undermine the stone upon which this vile fortress rested; then didst we topple the tower.”

“So it was you who brought the spires down,’ exclaimed Thork. “We heard your signals. Elyn. . Elyn did.”

“Aye, ’twas my kindred. ’Twas Chale.”

In amazement, Thork envisioned the Giant who followed behind and sealed the stone, for he was Chale. And he stood but twelve feet tall. Yet it was he who single-handedly had toppled the massive black spires. The power of these Folk must be. . terrible when unleashed in anger.

“And we recovered Lithon’s orbs, for that is what we bury deep, the eyes of the dead. His wert like unto the jewelstones thou namest diamonds-clear, crystal.” Now it was Orth who wept, not only for Lithon, but also for those Utruni killed at Dragonslair, though she strode onward, bearing Thork.

Thork’s festering blisters grew worse. A fever came upon him, and at times he fell into delirium, his words sometimes wild, sometimes sane. Orth continued to speak to him, telling him tales, often not knowing whether he was awake or asleep, aware or uncomprehending, at other times knowing that he was lucid and listening.

“Ah, so those are thine Folk; and thou namest them Châkka.” Orth smiled down at the Dwarf, even though he could not see in the darkness; at the moment he was delirious and babbling, speaking of building a gateway. “We admire the work of the Châkka, for thou doth beautify and strengthen the stone, enhancing it to our eyes. Unlike the work of the Foul Folk, for they destroy that which be beautiful, ruining all that they doth touch.”

On they strode, Thork mostly incoherent, though at times his words were plain. And now he argued with an imaginary companion:

“I suppose you would have me relinquish all claim to the treasure!”

Exactly so!

“Pfaugh! It is ours!”

Nonsense! It belongs to he who is strong enough and cunning enough to wrest it from the Dragon.

“Hush, Woman! You are, you are. .”

Beloved.

“O my Elyn, why does it have to hurt so?”

In the town of Inge in the Land of Aralan lived a healer on the edge of the village. There came in the night a knock on the door, and as the eld Woman lit a taper and shuffled to answer, little did she expect who, what, stood without.

The patient they left behind was in dire need: fevered, inflamed, burnt and blistered, the eld Woman applying poultices and herbs, brewing special tea, preparing soups of roots and bulbs gathered throughout the summers upon the slopes of the nearby foothills, heating the Dwarf when he had chills, cooling him when sweat runnelled down. She would not lose this patient, oh, no, for he was somebody to have such comrades. And over the next month, he slowly healed: his fever breaking at the end of the first week, his strength slowly returning over the next three. Yet he suffered from a malady for which she had no diagnosis, no cure: often for no reason that she could discern, she would find him weeping.

At last Thork took his leave, but ere he went, the healer, Madra by name, gave him that which the Giants had left: a fistful of uncut gems, and another one of pure malleable gold, and a wondrous shield made of Dragonhide.

Thork purchased two ponies, and supplies and weaponry and clothes, and set out for his distant Châkkaholt, leaving behind a prosperous village, especially the healer within.

And all the way westward, when he lay at night upon the earth, from deep within he could hear the measured signalling of Utruni, escorting him on his journey home.

It was late spring when he came finally unto the gates of Kachar, and much had changed since last he saw them nearly a year agone.

“Who goes?” called the sentry through the dusk, looking at this flame-scarred Châk, beard and hair growing once again, yet still uneven and rough.

“I be Thork, son of Brak, brother to Baran, DelfLord of Kachar,” called back the traveller, dismounting from his pony, leading it into the light of torches burning aflank the portal, the Dragonhide shield aglitter upon the mount. “And I am come home.”

Vengeance

Spring, 3E1603

[ This Year ]

Long did it take the Foul Folk from distant Carph to reach the holt of Andrak, even though driven by the evil one through his surrogate; for it was a journey of many miles, and they could but travel at night when the Ban struck not, seeking safety in the splits and cracks of the land ere dawn, when would rise the accursed Sun.

Even so, at last they came up from the southeast and unto the mountains of Xian.

And when they came to the ruin of Andrak’s fortress, they called unto their master: “Gulgok!”

And the vacant eyes of the surrogate filled will evil, cruelty glaring forth.

“Destroyed?” he hissed, enraged by what he saw. “The fortress destroyed? How can this be?”

The black stone of the dark spires lay shattered upon the grey valley floor, bursted apart where they had toppled. The master pondered such destruction, wondering at the power of the foe who had come unto Andrak’s, wondering how to deal with such might should the need arise.

“To Dragonslair!” he commanded at last, and then the eyes of the surrogate fell vacant once more, and a drooling idiot was left among the Rūcken ranks.

Across the face of Mithgar trekked the band, loping through the land at night, resting underground by day. Along the Grimwall they went, through the mountains, for ancient holts lay therein, places of safety from Adon’s Ban.

Yet when they came within a hundred miles or so from Dragonslair, some thirty-three leagues from their goal, grey pumice lay across the ’scape, in places deep enough to swallow a Rūck whole.

And when the evil one saw such, still he commanded them onward, his words harsh, saying to be certain that his surrogate survived the journey if none else did.

And so they struggled mightily, the journey arduous, for even a few short miles through this Hèllish ’scape took days to cover. Yet they persisted, driven by fear, and at last stood where the erupting ruin could be seen, its slopes blasted down, sulfuric yellow smoke belching out, glowing lava running in red and yellow streams down the devastated flanks.

And again they called the master, and once more the evil came and looked, and knew that Black Kalgalath was slain, for nought else could explain such destruction.

And back in the dark chamber beneath the frozen wastes, long sibilant laughter hissed forth. And those within cringed in fear, for they knew not what it boded. And long did the laughter fill the darkness, for Modru’s plot had come to fruition. And the crowning part of the scheme was that he had used the Drake himself to move the hammer from a place where no hero would seek it to a place where some would try, a place where only the fittest would succeed: the strongest, or the cleverest, or the most fortunate. Just the type needed to slay a Dragon. For that was what it was all about, the slaying of a Dragon. And no matter the trait of the one to succeed-be it luck or strength or cunning, or a combination thereof-it would be needed to kill a Drake, as indeed had come about.