Dennis McKiernan: Dragondoom

The source of this tale is a tattered, partially burned copy of Commentaries on the Lays of Bard Estor , an incredibly fortunate find dating from the time before The Separation. Compiled by an anonymous scholar, the titles of each of Estor’s lays is recorded, then augmented with historical accounts of the events surrounding the legends depicted in the bard’s work. Unfortunately, the music itself is missing, as well as the exact lyrics, though internal references at times quote specific passages therein. It is clear that Estor gained fame by singing of Elgo and Elyn and Thork, and of Sleeth and Black Kalgalath.

There are many instances in this tale where, in the press of the moment, the Dwarves, Humans, and others spoke in their own native tongues; yet, to avoid the awkwardness of burdensome translations, where necessary I have rendered their words in Pellarion, the Common Tongue of Mithgar. However, some words do not lend themselves to translation, and these I’ve left unchanged; yet other words may look to be in error, but are indeed correct-e.g., DelfLord is but a single word though a capital L nestles among its letters. Also note that waggon, traveller, and several other similar words are written in the Pendwyrian form of Pellarion and are not misspelled.

From my study of The Commentaries, the archaic tongue of the Utruni is similar in construction to archaic Pellarion, but with an Anglo smack to it. I have attempted to render this language into one that imparts the flavor without ruining its taste to the tongue.

In the main, this tale is about Elyn of Jord. Yet her story is so tightly entwined with those of the Dragons, Wizards, Dwarves, and Men, that to properly tell it, I deliberately moved back and forth in time: Chapters labeled [ The Present ] indicate the story of Elyn’s and Thork’s Quest for the Kammerling, as well as its aftermath; chapters labeled [ This Year ] indicate events occurring in the same year as the Quest, typically weeks or months previous, although in some cases the events occur at the same time as the Quest; the time labels on the other chapters are likewise referenced to the Quest.

In addition, because the Commentaries on the Lays of Bard Estor had been partially burned, when originally writing Dragondoom I made assumptions about the Sundering which have since proved erroneous: 1) I assumed that Mages came from Adonar when in fact they come from the Mageworld of Vadaria; 2) I assumed that the Draega had been stranded on Mithgar because of the Sundering, but have since discovered that to be in error as well; and, 3) I found the full of the Kammerling Rede (see Silver Wolf, Black Falcon ), and learned of a flaw in this tale concerning the final war. In this revised version of Dragondoom I have corrected these faults, and I apologize to my readers for the previous inaccuracies. I shall take greater pains in the future to avoid such mistakes where possible. Yet because my primary sources are so meager, I cannot but help in places in this tale (as in all others) filling in the gaps with assumptions; in the main, however, the tale is true to its root material.

Finally, there are various historical events referred to in this story. For those interested in more detail, I refer you to the works listed in the front of this book.

“Tell me, my son, what is the color of the Dragon?” “Crimson, Master, ever crimson, no matter what sees the eye.”

Year’s Long Night, 3E8

[ Centuries Past ]

Sleeth’s great yellow eyes slid open; behind crystalline membranes, long slitted pupils expanded wide in the ebon darkness. His great forked tongue flicked in and out, tasting the blackness of the cavern: Empty . Dire spume dripped from wicked fangs, and where it struck, froth sizzled and popped, and rock dissolved. Sleeth’s juices ran high, for he was ravenously hungry, yet this night he would not seek to fill his belly: he was after other prey.

Heaving his great bulk upward, Sleeth ponderously slid forward, long claws grasping stone, powerful legs propelling him toward the exit from the lair. Faint light shone ’round the bend before him, and Sleeth approached it with caution even though he knew that the glimmer came from Moon and stars, for Sleeth suffered the Ban, and to step into sunlight was to step unto Death.

Year’s Long Night had fallen, and Sleeth pressed his snout out into the clear, frigid, winter air. Around him, the ice-clad peaks of the bleak Gronfangs stabbed upward, as if trying to impale the glittering stars upon the jagged mountain crests. Sleeth glanced at the spangle above: night was but an hour old-more than enough time remained.

Slithering out from the den, Sleeth crossed the wide foreledge, fetching up against its precipitous lip. Stone fell sheer before him, plummeting down into the black depths far below. Silvery moonlight streamed through black pinnacles behind, pale beams splashing iridescently upon lapping scales-armored hide, virtually indestructible. Great muscles rippled and bunched, and with a roar that struck and clapped among the frozen crags, Sleeth leapt into the air, vast leathery pinions beating upward into the crystal sky, climbing toward the stars.

Circling, spiralling, up and up he flew, till he was high above the clawing peaks. And then he arrowed westward, into the angle of Gron, wings hammering across the night.

’Ware, Folk of Mithgar, a Dragon comes.

Late Summer, 3E1602

[ The Present ]

Again the panic-stricken squeal of a terrified steed rang out, filling the sudden silence, yet the tall, thickset marsh reeds blocked Elyn’s view, and she could not see more than a few feet ahead. Too, her vision was hampered by long shadows cast by the setting Sun. She was still some unknown distance from the far edge of the Khalian Mire, and had no time for distractions; for this was a place of dire repute, and she needed to be beyond the eastern marge ere full darkness fell, else she would be stranded here within these malevolent environs. Yet this sounded like a horseling in distress, and she was Vanadurin.

Gripping the saber she had instinctively drawn at the sound of the scream, Elyn leaned forward, ducking below long grey strands of a foul moss adrip from the lifeless branches of a nearby dead cypress that twisted up out of the clutching mire. “Hup, Wind,” she whispered to the mare, lightly touching her heels to the grey’s flanks, gently urging the mount ahead. And in the marsh about her, all the chirruping and neeking and breeking had stopped, as if the startled dwellers waited with bated breath to see what terror was afoot. Only the incessant cloud of gnats and mosquitoes and biting flies that swarmed about her head and shoulders seemed unaffected, their blood-hunger now and then driving one or two out from the horde and in through the pungent fumes of the gyllsweed to land biting on her or the horse. These Elyn managed to ignore as, fully alert, her attention was locked ahead.

Slowly the grey stepped forward, and again the terrified squeal sounded, and Wind could not suppress a gentle Whuff !

Now the reeds began to thin, and from the fore came the slosh of an animal thrashing in a quag. Too, there came “Kruk! Dök, praug, dök!” -the sound of a gravelly voice venting oaths.

Gradually the rushes thinned, and Elyn found herself on the edge of a small slough, perhaps thirty feet across. And there near the center floundered a terror-stricken pony; and behind, mired up to his chest, struggling and cursing-Elyn’s eyes narrowed in a sudden rush of hatred-thrashed a Dwarf !