by C. L. Werner
It was like watching ants devour a lion. Sharing Draukhain’s disgust and fury, Thoriol offered no objection when the dragon dived down upon the dwarfs swarming over the green wyrm. The drake’s flames consumed a hundred dwarfs in the first blast, sending them screaming, rolling and writhing on the ground in blazing heaps of agony. Draukhain landed among its victims, crushing dozens beneath its claws. Its great tail flashed out, swatting another score of dwarfs, hurling them into the trees. With a seething roar the dragon sent another gout of fire searing across the dawi warriors, burning down another score of the bearded foe.
The green wyrm thrashed about in its bindings, but it was clear the reptile was mortally wounded. Draukhain clamped its jaws around the creature’s neck, breaking it with a powerful twist and ending the wyrm’s suffering. Then it reared up, spewing more fire at the dwarfs still lingering around the trap.
Thoriol saw that Malok was back in the air, Ilendril urging the wyrm towards the walls. He urged Draukhain to do the same, but even as the drake started to respond, he saw something that riveted his attention. The standard of Morgrim. The dwarf hero’s standard was close to where Malok had been trapped. Nearby… nearby stood the murdering dawi himself!
‘He’s here!’ Thoriol snarled. Draukhain roared in reply. The dragon used its wings not to rise into the air but simply to propel itself across the field in a set of soaring leaps. The ground shuddered beneath the reptile’s feet as it lunged at the dwarf.
Before they could close upon Morgrim, something shot out from the trees. As Draukhain howled in pain, Thoriol appreciated how cleverly the enemy had laid their trap. The display of bringing up their siege weapons had been ostentatious, meant to gull the elves into thinking the dwarfs had nothing heavier than crossbows and axes at hand. Nestled among the trees, trained upon those concealed nets, the dwarfs had already deployed several bolt throwers. The dwarfs had swarmed the green wyrm before the bolt throwers could be employed and Malok had escaped too soon. Draukhain, however, in its charge, had become easy prey.
The bolt slammed into the dragon’s side. The dwarfs had had centuries to engineer weapons specifically designed to kill such monsters. The one that speared Draukhain had a cruel double-head, making it impossible for the dragon to pull free or tear loose without ripping its wound wide open. Vicious runes engraved upon the bolt’s head caused it to penetrate thick scales as though they were made of parchment. Other runes sent pulses of eldritch pain rushing through the dragon’s body, burning a creature who dwelled amidst volcanoes.
Draukhain’s last leap became a graceless crash. The dragon slammed down upon its side, breaking its left wing. Its weight gouged a deep trench until the creature intersected one of the hidden dwarf tunnels. Partially sinking into the now exposed fissure, Draukhain came to rest, roaring in pain and bleeding profusely from its wound.
Thoriol was almost overcome by the sympathetic pain he shared with the dragon. It took all of his strength to loosen the straps of his saddle and free himself. He nearly pitched headlong into the tunnel, where angry dwarf miners shook their fists and hurled rocks up at him. Taking a firm hold of Draukhain’s neck, he pulled himself up onto the dragon’s shoulder.
His head still ringing from the disastrous descent, Thoriol barely saw the crazed, half-naked dwarf who charged across the field until the maniac had nearly reached Draukhain. It didn’t take much awareness to guess what the dwarf intended to do with his upraised axe.
Shouting his own war-cry, Thoriol leapt down and intercepted the dwarf. Seeing the enemy up close, he found him to be a grim specimen indeed, with shaved head and scarred face. He thought of the beardless dwarf Liandra had spared, the ambassador Forek Grimbok who’d been disfigured by the king.
Whatever sympathy she’d shown the beardless dwarf, Thoriol knew he couldn’t do the same. Charging at the Slayer, he brought his sword flashing out at him, slicing a shallow cut across his arm.
The Slayer turned, glaring at him with crazed eyes. He snarled something in Khazalid, punctuating the remark with a blob of bloody spittle. Then, the dwarf’s fury was fully refocused against Thoriol.
In all his years, the elf prince had never encountered such a foe. The Slayer would fearlessly throw himself at Thoriol, accepting the cuts and gashes inflicted by his sword so long as he could bring his axe swinging around. It took all of his agility to avoid those sweeps of the axe. Once, when it glanced across his armour, he saw the mail split and shear away. What such a murderous weapon could do to flesh and bone was something he didn’t want to learn.
Bleeding from a dozen wounds, the Slayer kept up his attack. One of Thoriol’s slashes split the dwarf’s nose and opened his jaw, yet the crazed foe paid his mutilation less notice than a stubbed toe. Spitting teeth and blood, he pressed his assault, and had the satisfaction of connecting with the elf’s side.
It was a glancing blow. By rights it should never have penetrated Thoriol’s armour, no matter how strong the dwarf himself might be. But whatever hideous enchantment empowered the axe made it slash through his mail and sink deep into his body. It felt like a lance of fire pressing against his ribs, the flash of pain almost blinding him.
The Slayer had no opportunity to press his attack. As he ripped his axe free and prepared to strike again, Thoriol thrust at him with his sword. The blade he had been given by his father, the sword Caledor had claimed was unfit for a prince of Tor Caled, split the dwarf’s beardless face, punching through flesh and bone until it exploded from the back of his skull.
The Slayer crumpled, the terrible axe falling from his numbed hands. The light behind those crazed eyes faded.
Thoriol clamped one hand against his bleeding side and staggered over to rip his blade free from the Slayer. As he did so, a gruff voice called out to him in Eltharin.
‘That is my friend you’ve killed, elf!’
Thoriol turned. Through the pain, he managed to focus upon the dwarf who cried out to him. For an instant, hate blotted out all sensation of pain. His accoster was Morgrim Elfdoom himself. Attended only by a wizened runelord and his standard bearer, the great hero of the dawi was almost within reach of Thoriol’s blade.
Thoriol’s eyes narrowed as he saw the sword thrust beneath Morgrim’s belt. How many times had he seen that blade? The mud-eater hadn’t just killed his father, he’d taken his sword for a trophy.
Pointing at the sword in Morgrim’s belt, Thoriol snarled at his enemy. ‘That is my father you killed, dawi.’ He managed one staggering step before the pain of his wound brought him crashing onto his face. Then all was blackness.
Morgrim stared in astonishment at the elf as he collapsed. Was it possible that this truly was Imladrik’s son? Part of him sneered at the idea. What did it matter if he was? He’d killed Forek, cut him down before Morgrim’s very eyes. He was an elgi, one of their dragon riders, friend and companion of the drakk. He was vermin, just like the wyrms, and just like the wyrms he deserved no mercy.
Just as he started towards Thoriol, Morek cried out in warning. A nimbus of protective magic flared up around him as the runelord evoked some conjuration. The blast of fire that swept around him in the next moment made Morgrim’s skin blister and singed the hair of his beard, but otherwise rendered him no harm. When the flames abated enough that he could see, the thane found that the blue-scaled dragon was standing between him and the injured prince.
‘Draukhain,’ Morgrim muttered, recalling the monster’s name. Long ago he’d nearly ridden upon this beast, when invited to accompany Imladrik to Karaz-a-Karak. Long ago he’d spared this beast’s life in the ruins of Oeragor, allowing it to bear Imladrik’s body back to his people.
There could be no such compassion for the creature now. It had become a scourge to his people, preying on them as the Crawling Death. Even the merciless Malok was second to this drakk in the grudges levelled against it.
The dragon answered Morgrim with a low hiss. The reptile was wo
unded, both from the bolt and from its fall. It still carried the scars of Oeragor upon it. Yet even with all its injuries, it was still powerful enough to kill Morgrim almost without a thought.
Azdrakghar seemed to twist in Morgrim’s hands, pulsating with excitement. The thane recalled his enraged oath during another attack against Tor Alessi, swearing vengeance upon Draukhain for its part in massacring his army. That oath had awoken the runes of his axe – the axe originally crafted for Prince Snorri Halfhand.
Now he would fulfil the weapon’s purpose. It had been crafted for a Dragonslayer, yet for all the enemies it had claimed, no dragon blood had yet crossed the blade.
Draukhain reared back, spitting another gout of fire at Morgrim as he rushed the beast. Once more, Morek’s magic preserved the thane, fending off the worst of the drakk’s ire. Bulling through the incendiary blast, he brought Azdrakghar swinging out. The blade cracked against the dragon’s snout, shearing through its jaw and sending ripples of crackling magic sizzling through the monster’s face.
The dragon lurched back in both shock and pain. Before it could recover, Morgrim slashed at the exposed breast, cleaving a great gash across the beast’s chest. Draukhain’s claw came slamming down, nearly crushing the dwarf flat. Morgrim threw himself to one side. As he rolled across the ground, he delivered a back-handed cut that almost cleft through one of the drakk’s claws.
Beast and dwarf glared at each other. The warning cry of Khazagrim alerted the thane just before the dragon’s tail came slamming down. Morgrim replied by chopping at the tail, shearing it through and leaving a six-foot length of flesh writhing on the ground.
Draukhain came at him again, snapping at him with its jaws. The fangs missed Morgrim by inches and he felt the dragon’s foetid breath wash over him. Again he lashed out with Azdrakghar, this time ripping open the brute’s face and splitting several of its teeth in half. The dragon recoiled and brought its uninjured wing slamming down. Morgrim was knocked flat by the blow. For a hideous instant the leathery pinion settled over him like a shroud. He felt himself being smothered under the musky reek of the reptile.
Twisting the axe around in his hand, Morgrim pressed the blade against Draukhain’s wing, slicing it down the membrane. The dragon raised its wing, bellowing in pain. As it did so, Morgrim was dragged up with it, his axe catching in one of the bones. He worried his weapon free, dropping down onto the creature’s scaly back. Before the dragon was fully aware of his presence, Morgrim braced his legs and brought Azdrakghar down.
The blade crunched into the top of Draukhain’s skull, just ahead of the dragon’s horns. A froth of blood and tissue boiled up from the wound. The beast bucked and started to rear, but Morgrim brought his axe chopping down again. This time the reptile’s legs went limp and it slammed back to the ground. Morgrim lost his footing, but managed to keep hold of the drakk’s horn. Bracing himself again, he brought the axe slamming home for a third time. Now he could see the slime of the beast’s brain clinging to the end of his blade. A terrible shudder swept through the beast. Except for the nervous twitches and writhing of its mangled bulk, the dragon was motionless. All purpose and motivation had fled from it with that last blow.
Morgrim had earned the title Snorri Halfhand had believed would be his and which had driven him to such a tragic end. Morgrim Bargrum had become the Dragonslayer.
Strangely, he didn’t feel any sense of triumph as he dropped down from Draukhain’s body. All he felt was a terrible weariness and an urge to wash the blood from his body. If the drakk hadn’t been half dead when he fought it, Morgrim knew which of them would have prevailed.
Stumbling from his own wounds, Morgrim allowed Khazagrim to help him from the field. Before he returned to his own lines, however, he paused and pointed at Thoriol. ‘Bind the elgi’s wounds,’ he ordered Morek. ‘Stop the bleeding and send him back to his people.’ He hesitated, then removed Ifulvin from his belt.
‘Send this with him,’ Morgrim said. ‘Let him know I too remember his father.’
‘The Council of Princes doesn’t rule Ulthuan – the king does. And I am king!’ Caledor’s outburst rang through his throne room like a peal of thunder. Only a few of the king’s closest confidants were present, those he felt he could depend upon for their devotion and loyalty.
Caradryel felt himself to be in strange company indeed. He felt like a lamb among wolves, waiting to be snapped up at any moment. Why the king had summoned him to this meeting was a mystery. It was no great secret that he was in service to Lady Yethanial, and he was certain that his patron’s views of Caledor and his rule were no secret to the king. When Thoriol had been present at court, Caradryel’s presence there had made sense. Now, he could only speculate why the king would want him around, and his speculations weren’t venturing into comfortable territories.
Hulviar, the loyal seneschal, was the first to find his voice. ‘There has been discord among the Council of Princes ever since Yverian was recalled from Elthin Arvan.’
Caledor glared from his throne. ‘Is it my fault that he proved an incompetent commander? Is it my responsibility that he chose to fall on his sword rather than face up to his failures?’
Caradryel was careful to hide his own feelings on the matter. The king had dispatched a seemingly endless succession of generals to the colonies, commanders who had been chosen for their rank and position among the noble houses rather than their tactical capabilities. While such a strategy kept the best generals available for the campaign in Naggaroth, it also meant that the commanders sent to the colonies were ill-prepared for their duties. When they failed, when the asur suffered some new defeat, the king would recall them to Ulthuan in disgrace, a policy that was embittering the great houses. By trying to play up to his supporters, by sending their favoured sons and daughters to win fame and glory against the dwarfs, Caledor had instead fomented resentment and distrust. At every turn, the king was pushing more and more of the nobility away from him. Voices like those of Yethanial and Athinol weren’t alone in questioning the king now. There had even been whispers that the king should abdicate in favour of his nephew.
The king had to be aware of the rebellious sentiment that was growing among the ten kingdoms. Yet still he persisted in flaunting his authority and acting in defiance of every council and advisor.
‘My liege, caution is not cowardice,’ Caradryel offered.
Caledor smiled at Caradryel. It was a smile devoid of anything approaching warmth. ‘Did I ask your opinion on the matter?’ the king snapped. He leaned from his throne, waving his hand at a great tapestry hanging upon the wall. The tapestry displayed the lands known to the asur, each settlement and colony cleanly depicted. Ugly splotches denoted the lands the dwarfs had seized. The defacement was deliberate, a sight to provoke revulsion in anyone studying the map. At a glance, the observer could share his king’s displeasure.
‘The druchii are finished,’ Caledor declared. ‘What is left in Naggaroth are a few pathetic holdouts. We have the core of our strength out there chasing shadows, defending the coasts from raiders who will never come again.’ He snapped his fingers at Hulviar. ‘When was the last raid against Tiranoc?’
‘Three hundred and twenty years ago, my liege,’ the seneschal replied.
Caledor turned from the map, shaking his fist in disgust. ‘The druchii are finished! It’s nothing but a rat hunt now. The only reason the Council of Princes is displeased is because each of them wants the glory of being the one to bring Malekith’s head back on a pike. I’ll not see the whole of my kingdom threatened by their vanity.’
Caradryel could have told the king several things about whose vanity was threatening the kingdom, but again he kept his thoughts to himself. What he’d already heard was enough to alarm anyone, much less the Council of Princes. The armies were being withdrawn from Naggaroth, leaving only a few scattered garrisons to prosecute the ‘rat hunt’ as the king called it. The rest were being drawn in
to a royal expedition to the colonies.
But the king wasn’t stopping at simply recalling his army from Naggaroth, he was levying troops from Ulthuan as well. Caledor intended to gather the largest force ever seen in the ten kingdoms, a fleet and an army so enormous that its mere arrival in Elthin Arvan would have the dwarfs suing for peace. The mud-diggers would learn who was superior when they saw the true strength of the asur.
‘My liege, perhaps it would be wise to offer the Council of Princes something to appease them,’ Caradryel suggested. ‘Maybe only take the forces from Naggaroth on your expedition…’
‘That is out of the question,’ Caledor said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I will need every sword and bow to impress upon the mud-eaters the hopelessness of defying me. With the drakes refusing to participate, I must build the strength of my army with asur steel and ithilmar.’ A crafty gleam shone in his eyes as he leaned forwards and stared at Caradryel. ‘You are right, however. I am going to offer something that should appease my detractors and keep them quiet until I return.’ He pointed at the diplomat. ‘I am going to appoint you as my steward while I am gone.’
There weren’t many things in the realm of politics that could take Caradryel by surprise, but the king’s proclamation was one. He stared dumbfounded at Caledor. He glanced over at Hulviar, knowing that the king’s seneschal should be steward while the king was gone. There was resentment in Hulviar’s expression, but no real surprise. Clearly he’d known about this decision for some time.
‘I… I am not certain I am equal to such responsibility…’ Caradryel began.
‘Then make yourself equal,’ Caledor said. ‘I know how little affection you or your mistress bear towards me, but I know you are both loyal to House Tor Caled. I can trust you to protect my throne while I am gone because you will want to keep it safe for my heir.’
The king’s expression suddenly darkened. He sank back in his seat, his fingers tapping against the jewelled arms. ‘I have received a report from Tor Alessi. The dwarfs are attacking again. That is hardly news. What is news is the fact that Prince Thoriol has been gravely injured by the mud-diggers. The best healers in the colonies are trying to keep him alive.
