Dennis McKiernan: Dragondoom

Again the pursuing howls grew louder, and now Elyn heard the splash of running feet, ahead to the right and drawing nearer, on a collision course, she gauged. But the Dwarf and pony flew headlong and veered not, for there was the glimmer of water to both sides, and Elyn could only hope that they would dash past the intercept point ere the Spawn got there.

But that was not to be, for black shapes crashed out of the dark surround, across their flight and behind as well, yawling and shrieking, swinging cudgel and blade. And in the moonlight, Elyn for the first time saw the foe: Rutcha! Rutcha armed with scimitar and tulwar and cudgel and club!

Each of the Spawn was four-foot high or so, swart skinned, yellow eyed, bandy legged, akimbo armed, batwing eared, leers showing wide-gapped pointed teeth; and they boiled across the course of their victims.

The Dwarf spurred his pony and Elyn her horse, for there was nought left but to try to smash through.

As Elyn bore down upon the fore group, Rutch cudgel bashed into her leg, and her right foot fell numb. Too, she took a tulwar cut across her left arm, and she could feel hot blood runnelling with the sweat beneath her leathers.

Shkk! Elyn’s saber sheared through the elbow of the Rutch grasping at her stirrup, her aim deadly in the pale moonlight, and he fell away howling and clutching a gushing stump. Two more jumped in her way, but she spurred Wind and ran trampling over them, and once again burst through the ring of iron. Ahead of her fled the pony and Dwarf, his hammer asplash with dark blood.

Thrice more that perilous night did Rutcha bar the way, for to intercept them the Foul Folk took byways not known to the twain, whereas the two of them twisted along a tortuous route in the grip of a sodden land, avoiding bogs and such. And each time set against, the pair charged through, shouting battle cries and smashing and riving, hammer and saber, horse and pony scattering the Rutcha. Oh, they did not come away unscathed, for though unskilled, still the Rutcha got in many a telling blow, and the two were sorely assailed in the final encounter.

Yet at last, battered and bleeding, they broke free of the clench of the great Khalian Mire, coming upon its eastern edge, where pony and mare could run free across the Aralan lowlands, on the road to Destiny.

Spring, 3E1601

[ Last Year ]

Down from the Steppes of Jord they came, forty strong. They were proud, and hard, and they rode upon swift, fiery steeds, for they were Vanadurin, these fair-haired Men. Grim were their visages, and resolute, and their flinty eyes swept outward, scouring the land, for they were on a mission of daring and danger.

Down o’er the shield rock they fared in a column of twos, steel-shod hooves hammering upon the glacial stone. Sabers, long-knives, bows and arrows, spear-lances, all were scabbarded for the long-ride, though each would easily come to hand should the need arise. Steel helms the Men wore, dark and glintless, yet bearing gauds of horsehair and horns and wings flaring. Fleece vests covered chain-link shirts, and long cloaks were wrapped ’round, to ward the icy chill of a thin dawn mist flowing up from the distant shrouded ocean and over the sheer seawall cliffs and out upon this high stark land of stone.

In the fore on a jet-black steed rode a copper-haired, green-eyed warrior, a youth who had come into his manhood but seven summers past-yet he was Captain of this band, though his helm was adorned by nought. At his side rode a grizzled veteran, a grey frosting upon his flaxen locks, and dark raven’s wings spread back from the steel of his cap. ’Twas Elgo, the youth, and Ruric, his Lieutenant; and behind came thirty-eight more of the fair Harlingar. They were bound for Skaldfjord upon the Boreal Sea.

It was early spring of the year 3E1601, a time when the Vanadurin still dwelt in the northern realms, in Jord, their Wanderjahr yet to come, centuries removed, when they would wrest the great grassy plains of Valon from the Usurper in Caer Pendwyr. Many would leave the Jordreichs then, when the War of the Usurper was done. And they would settle at last far to the south upon the wide sweep of that green Land, consecrated by the blood of their dead, a Realm the rightful High King would award to the Harlingar for their part in overthrowing the foul Pretender.

But that was yet to be, some four hundred years hence; and in the time of this telling, all Vanadurin still roamed the high Jordian Steppes, where the soft summers were green and flowering and full of light and warmth in the long, long days; while the harsh winters were ice and wind and strange shifting colors draped in curtains of werelight high in the auroral night.

But now it was spring, when the blood stirs, and spirits surge, and Men set forth to do those things planned in the long frigid tides of darkness.

Such was the case with Elgo. And he had gathered a Warband of forty Harlingar eager to help him, though but thirty-nine now rode at hand, for one had gone ahead.

Tall and proud he was, and a Prince of the Realm, for he was King Aranor’s only son and would be next to lead the Harlingar. Yet Elgo was not content to stay at Court, tending to the tedious affairs of State. Nay, like his sire before him, Elgo the youth was a Man of action: why, it was not but two spring seasons agone that Prince Elgo, acting alone upon his winter-conceived plan, by stealth and cunning and sheer bravery, single-handedly slew Golga, cruel Ogru of Kaagor Pass, a long, strait, plumb-walled notch high in the Grimwalls. And the death of this great Troll had made that tradeway safe once more.

And ere that feat there were other bold ventures-such as the time the Prince and a sparse few routed the Naudron interlopers back across the eastern marge, back into their own icy Realm; or the three-day chase across the highfjelt in pursuit of Flame, the red stallion, trapping the great stud at last in the blue waters of Skymere; or the day Elgo stole beautiful Arianne from under the very nose of Hagor, bearing the fair maiden home upon the withers of Shade to become his bride.

Yet, alone, these deeds or others of Elgo’s derring-do are not what drew Men to his banner, nor did they come because he was Aranor’s son; instead it was because the Prince was a canny leader, as well as being a mighty warrior-in spite of his youth, in spite of his rash pride. . or perhaps because of it-and where he went there was adventure .

And now Elgo had another plan.

And this time he was after Dracongield !

As the morning aged, the wan mist fled before the rising Sun. And the riders came at last to the high windblown brow of the craggy sea-cliffs. Below, the ocean boomed against ancient rock, hurling sand and salt and wave upon the adamant foe, advancing but grain by grain in the endless strife, imperceptibly gaining along this front; while at distant elsewheres, along abyssal rifts, molten magma spewed forth from the guts of the world, and just as imperceptibly, new land slowly crept up from out of the darkling depths as the eternal struggle for dominion went on.

North along this one front of the ceaseless elemental War turned the column, the Men hearing but not heeding the great battle below.

Two more hours the Harlingar coursed northward, finally coming to a narrow inlet trapped between steep-walled, fir-laden cliffs. It was Skaldfjord: deep, crystalline Skaldfjord. Like a monstrous stroke from some great giant’s axe, the fjord clove down through the stony land and far into the ocean floor, icy flux from the Boreal Sea rushing in to fill the dark chasm. Although the waters of Skaldfjord were crystalline, they were so deep as to take on the aspect of black. And the great notch went slashing through the land to the east ere curving away north, the chill ebon waters passing from view beyond the bend; and this way along the lofty rim went the Men.