Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

The dragon roared and surged on. Gretchan grabbed the bars of the cage, but they were unyielding, and she had no doubt that the wizard had spoken the truth about his trap. Her throat was dry, so parched she could barely croak out a sound. With another whispered word, she conjured a drink of water, instantly gulping the liquid that magically appeared in her waterskin and easing her parched throat.

Then the dragon was there.

Its huge, flaming head reared upward from a long, sinuous neck. Foreclaws, like its skin and wings, made of solid fire, glowed like red-hot metal superheated in an infernal forge. The beast rippled upward. Through the waves of heat that caused it to flicker in the air, a sinuous figure of majesty and terror was outlined in crackling flames.

“Oh Reorx, grant me your strength, to stand before this horror of the Abyss. If it be your will, may I slay it. Or if it be your will, may I die with courage and grace.”

She heard a cackle of laughter, like an insane giggle, coming from directly behind her, and she knew that Willim the Black lurked there, waiting for her to work Reorx’s magic. The beast was so close that she dared not look away. Instead, she clutched her staff and stared at the unspeakable creature in awe.

Its head was as large as the cage imprisoning her. Atop the serpentine neck, it swiveled around, with eyes of charcoal black-the only part of the monster that didn’t seem to be on fire-sweeping around the vast cavern of Norbardin’s royal plaza, clearly searching, searching.

And finally those soulless eyes came to rest upon her. The dragon flew closer, looming overhead. The heat of its presence blasted Gretchan’s face and hands, warmed her robe, and began to singe her hair.

“By all the power of the Forge, you are doomed!” she cried, raising the staff. “Go back to the Abyss! Go hide in your foul plane of nothingness and despair! There is nothing for you here!”

The dragon reared back, fanning the air with the great sails of its wings, dripping a cascade of sparks across the gathered throng of dwarves below. Its huge maw gaped wide, and a belch of fire erupted, an oily fireball spewing toward Gretchan, crackling and sizzling. Behind the priestess, Willim the Black shrieked, and when the sound was abruptly cut off-a split second before the fireball reached them-the cleric instantly suspected that the wizard had teleported away.

She had access to no such refuge, however, so she closed her eyes, clutched her staff, and relaxed, yielding her person and her life into the hands of her god as the dragon’s fiery breath surged forward, enveloping the cage and fully engulfing her.

Then she felt Reorx’s presence surround her. The Master of the Forge was like a cool blanket, insulating her against the hellish inferno that surged and churned everywhere. Even through her closed lids, she saw the fire, the brilliant orange brighter than the sun. She knew the flames were right there, but somehow she couldn’t feel the terrible heat.

The fire seemed to last forever, though she realized that only a few seconds had passed. She heard the monster roar again and again as it gradually realized that it was not killing her, that, in fact, the power of Reorx was not only protecting her, but exerting itself against the Chaos creature itself.

She dared to open her eyes, and she saw the dark circles of the dragon’s eyes, widening as if in astonishment or disbelief. It breathed fire again, but it seemed as though its blast of infernal breath were actually infusing her with strength and draining away the terrible potency of the fire dragon’s searing presence.

“Ha!” she cried, taunting the dragon with her joy and might. “You have met your master! He will take your power! You will know death!”

She raised the staff from the floor of the cage and pointed its anvil head directly at the monster. The fire dragon bellowed again, twisting and thrashing those great wings, but it struggled like a creature caught in a trap. It writhed and roared, flailing the air with its red-hot talons, lashing with its tail, driving those vast wings in ever more desperate attempts to break away.

“No!” shouted Gretchan, exulting in the creature’s defeat. “You shall not fly!”

The Chaos creature uttered one last, furious roar, a sound that resonated through the huge cavern, reverberating from the walls, echoing up and down the connecting caverns. Gretchan was pulled, hard, toward the wall of the cage, but she still held the staff, and she stabbed it like a spear, as if she would drive the head right through the monster’s heart.

Then it was as though, suddenly, the fire at the dragon’s core was smothered, the brightness of the flaming skin fading, the heat radiating from its horrific presence cloaked, muffled, and absorbed.

Even as she watched, the essence of the monster chilled and shrank. The flaming body cooled, flowing like smoke into the air, sucked toward the cage by the power of Reorx and the agency of his staff. Gretchan placed the head of that staff into the midst of the dense cloud of smoke and watched as it sucked away the pure, chaotic power that had wrought so much destruction.

And the staff continued to absorb the fading remnant of the fire dragon. The magical protection of Reorx still cloaked her, allowed her to survive the heat that caused the iron bars of the cage to burn hot and glow red. She could feel the shaft growing fiery in her hands, so hot that she could feel the skin on her palms blistering.

But still she held firm, not daring to let the rod even wobble or sway. Indeed, she held it straight upward, and the silver anvil at its head began to glow red, then yellow, then white, filling the underground cavern with a brilliant light such as it had never known. That illumination pierced into the far corners of Norbardin, driving back the darkness and, for a brief moment, shining as proof of Reorx’s goodness and of his triumph.

Finally, the fire dragon was gone.

Gretchan stumbled backward, releasing the staff and almost gagging at the sight of her blackened palms, the smell of her own charred flesh. She muttered the words to a potent healing spell, just as blackness rose around her. She swayed, struggling to remain conscious.

She felt the cage moving. With a sickening lurch of magical power, she realized that the black wizard had returned. Quickly she reached for her staff, but it was no longer there.

Nor was her cage atop the tower of the royal palace anymore. Instead, she found herself back in the wizard’s laboratory. All three of the wizards were there, gathered in a circle around her. The two females, she realized, were looking at her with expressions approaching awe.

Willim, however, was practically cackling with delight. He held her staff in his hands again, tossing it back and forth between them as if it were still too hot to hold. Once again Gretchan wished that her god would smite him for his blasphemous touch.

But instead, it seemed as though the heat inherent in the staff was dissipating, for Willim was soon able to hold it comfortably. He stroked the wood with obvious pleasure and looked at Gretchan with an expression of sudden and seemingly insatiable desire.

The night in Hillhome was one of the finest nights in Gus Fishbiter’s long and eventful life. Not only did he have enough to eat and drink-so much, in fact, that necessity required him to slip away from the party occasionally so that he could throw up the contents of his full stomach, simply to make room for the next course-but he was actually privy to the council of high and mighty dwarves. They never asked his opinion about anything, of course, but they let him listen to their important debate. And if they didn’t exactly seek his advice, neither did anybody clobber him on those occasions when he did dare to speak!