Dennis McKiernan: Dragondoom

Thork’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of the throne, his scars flaring crimson with rage. Yet Bolk did not heed these signs, and instead strode inward, his voice brimming with contempt:

“Heed me, Thork, for even the simplest of children know this, yet I will put it in terms that even you can understand: Consider the swallow and the swift: the swallow ever building, the swift ever flying, at times living on the same cliff, but never in the same nest, following Adon’s everlasting laws, never mixing their blood.

“We are like unto them, Châkka and Humans, and never should our bloods mix.”

“Bah!” spat Thork. “Who are you to say what Adon intends? Are we not all children of Elwydd, Humans and Châkka alike?”

“So this is why you have turned your back upon your own Kind! You love a Human!” thundered Bolk. “You are a blind fool and a blasphemer, Thork, but even a fool should know that Châkka blood must remain pure! To mix it with another race, to mix it with that of a Human, to mix it with that of the Princess of the Riders would be an abomination!”

“Yaahhh!” Thork exploded from the throne and leapt upon Bolk, whelming the redheaded Châk back, hurling him to the stone floor of the chamber, his hands clutching Bolk by the throat, throttling him. Bolk smashed at Thork’s face, beating him with fists, then grabbed Thork’s wrists in an attempt to pull the strangling hands away. Mightily Bolk strained, his eyes bulging, his breath choked off, yet Thork was maddened beyond reason, and could not be dislodged. Bolk’s legs thrashed, his heels striking the floor, his feet drumming then jerking spasmodically, his struggles weakening as Thork suffocated him.

Yet of a sudden it was not Bolk’s blackening features that Thork saw in his clutch, but instead those of his brother Baran, of his sire Brak, of his grandsire Delp, of all Châkka reaching hindward into the timeless past, down through the ages unto First Durek himself, and then beyond to where Thork found his own face staring back at him. And then Thork knew: knew that Bolk was no more or less than any other Châk, knew that Bolk was but merely the result of his shaping in youth, as Thork, himself, once had been.

Thork loosed his grip from upon Bolk’s throat, the redheaded Châk slack, unconscious, but breathing again now the clench was gone.

His features pale, his hands trembling, Thork stood and turned to his dam, who still sat upon the steps to the throne. “Mother-”

“He named you the blind fool, my son, but it is he and his ilk who cannot see. Yet I am pleased that you stayed your hand.” Sien’s heart was pounding, and inside she was weak with distress; yet she had not cried out, had not interfered, for from the very beginning the Châkia had known of the deep-running passions of the Châkka, of their tempers and their loves, and did not attempt to hinder their dark wrath. Gathering her strength, Sien stood and moved toward the door, her veils drifting about her. “I will fetch a healer.”

As Sien trod toward the portal, Bolk’s words echoed in her mind: “. . Châkka blood must remain pure. . remain pure. . pure. .”

The Châkian stepped through the opening to summon a page.

Fool Bolk! Little does he know about the purity of Châkka blood. . Little does he know.

And when Sien had sent the attendant running after a healer, she continued on toward her quarters, keeping the long-held secret of all the Châkia unto herself and her Kind.

In the chamber behind, as Bolk regained consciousness, his first sight was that of Thork upon one knee beside him. Groaning in fear, Bolk attempted to gain to his elbows and hitch hindwards, yet he had not the wherewithal and feebly fell back.

“Heed me, Bolk,” gritted Thork. “I am sending you away from Kachar-to Mineholt North or to the Red Hills, or even unto Kraggen-cor; I have not yet decided which. If I do not send you away, then it is plain that you and I will continue this madness until one or the other of us is slain. Yet ere it comes to that, ere it comes to murder and the consequences thereafter, I am sending you forth from this place to elsewhere, to a place where we can be rid of one another.” Thork’s face grew dark, his scars flaming, and he reached down and clenched a fistful of Bolk’s shirt in his grip, wrenching Bolk upward, dragging Bolk’s face close to his, the redheaded Châk’s eyes wide in fright. “Yet heed me again, Bolk!”-Thork’s words fell like strokes of a hammer upon an anvil-“If you ever utter another word against Princess Elyn, I will hunt you down and slaughter you like a pig and leave your corpse for the crows to eat, no matter the consequences.”

In that moment, a healer rushed in bearing his bag of herbs and simples, of salves and ointments and potions and powders, of gut and needles, of bandages and bindings, and Thork loosed his grip and stood and walked from the chamber, leaving Bolk on the floor behind.

Two days later, Bolk set forth from Kachar, heading for the Sky Mountains far to the west, and with him went nine others of like mind. And DelfLord Thork stood at the gate and watched them ride down through the valley and away, not sorry to see them go.

Though he was surrounded by Counsellors and petitioners and planners with issues to be settled and tasks to be done, Thork sank deeper into his melancholy, his days seeming long and lonely and pointless, his nights black and empty. And not a moment passed he did not think of Elyn-her copper hair, her green eyes, her grace beyond description. Yet at last he knew that this could not go on: he knew that he must come to terms with her death, else he could not give his best to the people of Kachar. And so, leaving word with the Council and taking a seven-day of supplies, Thork set off for the DelfLord’s Retreat, a small chamber high within the Mountain, climbing up along the way discovered ages past, the path steep, ramped in some places, stairs carven in others.

Up he climbed and up, stopping often to rest, yet at last he came unto the room where DelfLords before him had come-to rest, to meditate, to ponder. The chamber was ample, some five paces by seven, and furnished with a cot and privy pot and desk and chair. Upon the desk were candles and an oil lamp, and blank scrolls of foolscap. An inkwell and goose quills sat waiting, but the ink was long dried, though a waxsealed tin of lampblack stood ready for mixing should he feel the need to write.

Along one wall stood a copper-clad door, green with verdigris, a heavy crossbar fastening it shut. Thork moved to the portal and, with a grunt, hefted the bar up and away. Hinges protested as he swung the door inward and open, to reveal a twisting narrow crevice leading outward, and he could hear cascading water.

Stepping through the portal, Thork followed the smoothed floor of the winding split, curving this way and that, passing a small tumbling rill and continuing on; and after thirty paces or so, he came out into daylight on a broad ledge high upon the flank of the Mountain.

Down below he could see the whole of the vale leading up to the gates of Kachar. Too, he could see where Black Kalgalath had torn stone from the slopes to hurl it down below, the steeps scarred deeply and over a vast area, and he recalled Counsellor Dalk’s words: “It was as if Kalgalath knew that we were ready to begin our march upon Jord, and he came and buried the gates under a mass that made the other appear as an afternoon’s shovelling. It took us nearly three months to dig free, yet we succeeded at last, not more than a week before you returned, DelfLord Thork.”

North and east, Thork could see the snowcapped peaks of the Grimwall; south and east, the Realm of Kachar, and beyond, the Land of Aven, perhaps even unto Garia as well.