Dennis McKiernan - Dragondoom

And this is why Modru laughed, for now his vengeance was complete: Black Kalgalath, the mighty Drake whose aid could have altered the outcome of the Great War, Black Kalgalath, the Drake who refused to cast his lot with that of Modru, Black Kalgalath, who betrayed the High Master, Gyphon, Black Kalgalath was dead. . by Modru’s hand, or just as good as.

True, Andrak had been slain; but that had always been a possibility, a risk that Modru had readily accepted when first he conceived his magnificent scheme.

And so Modru laughed long in the darkness, calling out time and again, “Do you not see the beauty of my plan: the Drake himself was the agent of his own downfall.”

Days passed, and at long last Modru’s pleasure abated. Once again his malevolence clotted upon the throne. And now he sat waiting: for a great dark rock to complete its long, long journey; for a stone that would arrive some twenty-four hundred years hence; for a hideous feartoken to come rucketing down amidst fire and thunder; for the power that would at last set him and his minions free: free to conquer, to destroy, to ravage the land; free to loose his own Master and rule the world. He waited for the day this thing would come at last, and waited for the darkest day beyond, when would be realized the greatest vengeance of all.

And far above the deep black granite, the whelming wind thundered endlessly down upon the icy scape, shrieking in fury, yet not matching the seething rage below.

Summer and Fall, 3E1603

[ The Present ]

The evening that Thork returned to Kachar was one of great joy and of great grief and perhaps of great rancor: joy, for the heir to the throne had returned; grief, for Thork learned of the death of his beloved brother, Baran, slain by a spear meant for another; rancor, for it seemed that Bolk but reluctantly stepped aside, grudgingly giving over the power he wielded unto the DelfLord born.

And he found a Châkkaholt upon a War footing, readying for an assault upon Jordkeep.

Yet he conducted no business of state that night, instead calling for an assembly of the Chief Captains and Counsellors to take place in the Council Hall at mid of day on the morrow.

And Thork sought out his mother, Sien, the Châkian waiting in her chambers. Gracefully she stood and took his hands in hers, and from within her veils looked past his flame-scarred face and deep into his eyes, and saw within a terrible grieving, and a heart torn by anguish nearly beyond bearing. She knew that Thork mourned for Baran, for that was reflected in the sadness she saw. But the pain he held deep within went far beyond the sorrow of brother grieving for brother. Nay, this was something more. Yet she said nought, knowing that he would tell of it in his own time, when he could bear to speak of it.

Long they talked into the night: of the War, of the casualties, of Baran and Brak, of things past and present, of events yet to be. But of his journeys, Thork said nought, and Sien then knew that therein lay his broken heart.

Thork sat in the DelfLord’s chair, while all about him the hall filled with Châkka, Captains taking their seats, Counsellors likewise, many hurrying through the chamber doors to be within ere the Council started. The great room buzzed with conversation, Captains and Counsellors speculating upon what DelfLord Thork would say, what DelfLord Thork would do, speculating, too, upon when they would set out northward to take the War to the Men, a War that would have already begun but for the raid of Black Kalgalath on Springday morn when he buried the gate once again. At last the signal came that the Sun stood at the zenith, and Thork signified that the doors were to be closed, latecomers just squeezing past as the portals swung to.

All eyes turned expectantly unto the DelfLord, and Thork stood. He was dressed in burnished black-iron chain mail, and a rune-marked axe was at his right hand. His damaged beard and hair had been washed and combed and trimmed as best could be, his flame-scarred face turning slowly left to right as he surveyed all those within. Conversation fell to a murmur, to a cough or two here and there, to silence. And when the entire chamber was quiet, the DelfLord spoke, his voice soft, but all could hear him: “This War with Jord is done. We will fight no more.”

The hall exploded: Châkka leapt to their feet and shouted in rage, oaths filling the air; others fell back into their seats in shock and dismay; still others waited quietly, for they would hear out the new DelfLord. Many turned to Bolk at the opposite end of the table, for he was chief until Thork’s return. And it was Bolk who held the floor when the uproar subsided.

“By Hèl, you cannot do this, Lord Thork, for we are upon the verge of total victory over these Riders ! We are set to march unto Jordkeep and throw it down and take back the treasure that is rightfully ours.”

Shouts of agreement rose up, and Bolk nodded savagely to those about who supported him.

Thork waited until this demonstration had nearly run its course, then held up his hands for quiet. It was a long time coming, yet at last silence reigned.

“There is no treasure at Jordkeep. Black Kalgalath tore down the castle and rent open the vault and took the trove unto himself. And when Kalgalath was destroyed in turn, the treasure was destroyed, too, lost in the ruin of Dragonslair. But heed me! Even were there yet a trove, still would this War be over !”

Again the hall erupted in sound, shouts of dismay and disbelief ringing throughout: Kalgalath dead and Dragonslair ruined?. . treasure destroyed? Jordkeep. .?

This time when the DelfLord held up his hands, silence came more quickly; yet it was Bolk whose words intruded, his voice ringing: “You say these things, Lord Thork, yet how know you that Black Kalgalath is dead? How know you that the trove be destroyed, that Jordkeep is torn asunder?”

A rumble went through the assembled Châkka, for now Bolk trod on dangerous stone, questioning the DelfLord as he did.

Thork gritted his teeth, yet held his temper, as all eyes swung his way. “I know these things, Captain Bolk, for my companion and I slew Black Kalgalath with the Kammerling.”

Slew the Drake? Shouts of astonishment burst forth, yet quickly subsided as Thork held up a hand for silence.

But again it was Bolk who held the floor: “You have not answered all my questions, Lord Thork. Yet I will add to them: Who was this companion you declare helped you slay a Dragon? And, too, if it be as you say, then where be this fabled Kammerling you claim to have wielded? Where be the proof of what you say?”

Now did all the Châkka assembled glance back and forth between these two, for it seemed certain that Bolk and Thork would come to combat.

And Thork’s hand reached down and gripped the haft of his axe, hefting the weapon onto the table and laying it before him, his knuckles white. Even so, he managed to release the helve, and then he spoke: “You go too far, Captain Bolk, with the tone and tenor of your questions; yet this once will I answer all you have asked:

“My companion was Princess Elyn, Warrior Maiden of Jord, daughter to King Aranor.”

Sharply indrawn breaths greeted this news, but chopped to silence as Thork went on.

“That Jordkeep is torn asunder, I know by her word.

“That the Drake took the trove to Dragonslair, I know because I saw it therein.

“That the Dragon was slain by the Kammerling, I know because I did it.

“That the trove is destroyed, I know for it was in a firemountain blasted apart: Dragonslair.

“That Dragonslair exploded, you should know, for it did so in the afternoon of the first day of spring, and I am told that the cataclysm of its ruin was felt and heard here in Kachar as well as far beyond.