Dennis McKiernan - Dragondoom

And when all the Châkka had gathered, Bokar mounted up a massive rock pedestal in the center of the expanse, and every Dwarven eye focused upon him; and thus none saw the great sinister silhouette slide across the silvery face of the Moon to quickly vanish, becoming virtually undetectable against the spangled vault.

The DelfLord lifted his face and arms to the star-studded heavens and raised his voice unto the sky, speaking the great litany, the unified response of the gathered Châkka alternating with his, cantor and chorale, the echoes of supplication resounding among the stone of the Rigga Mountains:

[Elwydd-

— Lol an Adon . .]

Elwydd-

— Daughter of Adon

We thank Thee-

— For Thy gentle hand

That gave to us-

— The breath of Life

May this be-

— The golden year

That Châkka-

— Touch the stars.

Bokar lowered his arms, and long after the belling echoes had ceased to ring, reverent silence reigned. And all that could be heard was the soft churning gurgle of water running ’neath ice somewhere nearby.

At last the DelfLord cleared his throat, and all faces turned expectantly toward his. He gazed once more at the stars above, the spangle wheeling silently overhead. And again he marveled at their scintillant pattern, fixed, but for the five known wanderers charting courses of their own. What destiny lies in your matrix this night, he wondered, what omens do your lights conceal? Shaking his head to clear these thoughts, he came to the matter at hand, for the skies had swept to the depth of the darktide. And his voice cried out, “Here now at Blackstone it is mid of night. Let the winterfest of Cheol begin!”

A glad shout rose up into the sky, and Dwarves turned from the chill winter night toward the warm yellow light of the cheery Dwarvenholt beyond the massive open portals.

But the glad shout was lost under a great brazen bellow.

And the hammer of vast leathery wings drove a whelming wind down upon the Châkka, striking them to their knees.

And a huge, scaled monster slammed down among the Dwarves in the courtyard before the gates, crushing Châkka beneath its enormous bulk.

Sleeth the Orm had come, and he was terrible.

Double-bitted Dwarven axes leapt to Châkka hands, but great claws like scimitars lashed out, riving and slashing, cleaving Dwarves in twain. Warriors rushed forward shouting battle cries, but huge jaws snapped, teeth clashing and tearing, rending through flesh and armor alike. Châkka squads fell back to regroup, but a massive sinuous tail whipped about, striking, smashing, crushing.

But most devastating of all, jets of dire spume shot forth from Sleeth’s throat, and where they touched, stone bubbled and metal smoldered and flesh charred, though no flame burned-for Sleeth was a Cold-drake, bereft of his fire by Adon. Even so, this Orm’s breath was deadly, for a cloud of poison boiled from his mouth, and Dwarves died gasping, their lungs aflame as they fell dead unto the stone.

And nought that the Dwarves did brought hurt unto Sleeth, for their axes but glanced away from the Dragon-armored hide, and Sleeth slew them even as they desperately raised their blades for yet another blow. Châkka were struck down as they tried to win past Sleeth and gain the mighty holtdoors of Blackstone, hoping to shut the gates and bar the Cold-drake from the Dwarvenholt. But Sleeth stood before the portal and would not yield.

Young and old, hale and weak, male and female, sire, dam, child, it mattered not: Sleeth slew indiscriminately. By fang and claw and lashing tail, by charring spume and poison breath he felled them. For Death incarnate had come unto Blackstone, and amid cries of despair, Châkka by the hundreds died. Not all, for some escaped into the winter night, yet more than two-thirds fell to the Dragon. But none, not a single Dwarf, had won past the dread monster and into the Châkkaholt.

And when all the Dwarves were slain or had fled weeping into the frigid darkness, Sleeth roared in triumph, his voice like immense, massive, coarse brass slabs clashing and shearing one upon the other, his mighty clangor crashing out into the night. And as the echoes shocked and slapped among the icy crags, the great Orm turned and with his mighty claws he rent the gates blanging down from their hinges, and then he ponderously slithered into Blackstone to make it into his lair, slithered into Blackstone to claim a treasure trove, slithered into Blackstone where a great banquet of Winterfest lay waiting-a feast no Châk would ever eat. .

. . and sixteen hundred years passed.

Late Summer, 3E1602

[ The Present ]

All night, Elyn and the Dwarf rode easterly into Aralan as the Moon crept upward past the zenith and then downward at their backs, casting pale shadows upon the grassy reaches of the land. Neither spoke to the other, though they did stop long enough to staunch the worst of their wounds, each in turn standing ward while the other bound his own hurts. Neither did more than a crude job of it, for both were anxious to be on their way, and they could feel a malevolence dogging their tracks, though no sign of pursuit was at hand.

Carefully pacing their steeds, they rode till dawn light illumed the eastern sky, and then they sought a rest-site, for both were weary unto their very bones.

At the edge of a sheltering coppice they found a running stream, and set up camp, each glaring with distaste at the other. The Dwarf was still covered with swamp muck, now dried, and looked like some grotesque troglodyte in the glancing rays of the Sun, just now lipping the horizon. On the other hand, Elyn fared not much better, for she, too, was bespattered from head to foot by mire grime, also dried.

“Four and four, Rider, ” declared the Dwarf in a voice that brooked no argument, “and I’ll take the first watch. Sleep now, I am tired.”

“Not until I care for Wind, Dwarf .”

Limping, Elyn led the mare to drink, and fed the grey a small amount of a mix of oats, wheat, and barley, taken from a saddlebag, and rubbed her down while she ate it. When the grain was gone, she tethered Wind in the long grass nearby.

Returning to the campsite, Elyn looked at the Dwarf, her eyes narrowing. “Truce?” she asked. “Truce,” he replied, whereupon she flung herself down upon the sward and instantly fell asleep.

Four hours later, at the Dwarf’s prodding, Elyn groggily came awake. Adon! I’m sore! Stiffly, she stood, feeling all of the bruises, batterings, and cuts she had taken from the Wrg. She hardly noticed the Dwarf as she swept up her spear and her saddlebags and hobbled to a nearby pool in the brook, and when she looked back, he was already sound asleep in the long sweet grass.

Swiftly, she pulled off her left boot, and gingerly, the right one. Just above the ankle, where the Rutchen cudgel had struck, there was a swelling, sore to the touch, but she could walk. Wincing, she carefully stripped from her grimy leathers- Garn! I’m purple blotched all over! — and eased into the chill, sparkling water. While keeping a watchful eye on the surrounding ’scape, she washed herself, taking care to thoroughly cleanse the cuts and scrapes. During her frequent scans of the grassland, she could not help but note that the pony, too, had been rubbed down, and was staked nearby. Hmmph! At least the Dwarf cares for his mount.

Refreshed, she emerged from the stream and sat on the grassy bank to let the warm Sun dry her, all the while keeping her right foot in the cool swift water, hoping that the swelling would subside.