To Dream with the Dragons (Hyborean Dragons)

by B. V. Larson

  “I trust you would do the same,” smiled Therian grimly.

  “Of course, sire.”

  Both of them backed a step toward the vortex, then another.

  The crossbowman was now little more than a withered husk. At last the screams quieted. The lich released the corpse, which slumped down like a flaccid wineskin, drained of its contents.

  Like a man taking a deep draught of fresh, mountain air, the lich seemed to swell. It gave an unearthly cry that took Gruum several seconds to identify. It was laughter.

  “Now,” said Therian. “It is sotted with the ecstasy of a fresh soul. Come.”

  Therian turned and ran toward the vortex. He hurled Lin’s skull at the breach, which swallowed it whole and made a brilliant, silent flash of cold light. “It is too early,” screamed Therian over the roar of the vortex, “but we must chance it.”

  Behind them, the lich had taken notice of their flight, his other men had vanished, but they had left behind the walking serpent and two bodies. He touched each of the corpses and they did spring up and shamble forward in pursuit of Therian and Gruum.

  “There is no escaping me, boy-king,” roared Vosh’s voice inside their minds, which was the only place they had ever heard it.

  Gruum neared the screeching vortex, wondering if it might be better to face the lich. He staggered an involuntary step toward it.

  “It draws us in!” cried Gruum over the roar of the thing.

  “Take my hand.”

  “No,” cried Gruum, “Let us turn upon our enemies. Let me die with my blade in my hand!”

  “When we enter,” shouted Therian, “make sure to get all of your person inside the twisting cone of it. If we get separated, stay inside the cone and do not let your hands nor feet slip beyond its limits.”

  Gruum shook his head fearfully and edged away.

  “Very well then,” said Therian. He stepped behind Gruum and slapped his legs out from beneath him with the flat of Succor’s blade. “In you go!”

  Gruum felt himself lifted up and drawn into the swirling vortex.

  A crossbow bolt, fired by a dead man, snapped near them, then was caught up in the vortex and sucked way into nothingness.

  Gruum screamed wordlessly. Spittle flew from his open mouth to be sucked into the magical storm just before he entered it himself.

  -15-

  Home. Gruum slumbered, dreaming lightly in that half-aware state that can be so delicious when one is warm, comfortable and unhurried. Nearby, orange flames danced upon a stone hearth. Outside his family’s lodge, horses nickered and scratched their sharp hooves in the earth, drawing dark lines in the grassy steppe.

  Gruum?

  Who called? he wondered. His father, surely. Perhaps the horses needed attention, perhaps the new foal had finally come out at pasture. Whatever it was, it would wait.

  Gruum, where are you?

  Frowning in his sleep, he rolled to one side, grabbing at his cloak. It seemed oddly cold. Perhaps the fire was dying.

  Gruum, wake up.

  A cold, bestial claw gripped his shoulder and shook him cruelly.

  Gruum jerked awake. The movement was enough to dislodge him from his perch and send him sliding headfirst down the glass-slick, carven rocks. Far from home and hearth, the nighttime world around him was cold, bitterly cold. He scrabbled for purchase upon the black rocks, but found none. He came to the ledge, slipped over the edge of it. He lost his grip upon his saber and it rattled and clanged down into the void. For an awful moment he hung there above the yawning abyss.

  Just as he was about to follow his weapon, a powerful hand gripped his arm and lifted him back up onto the ledge.

  “You almost escaped,” said Therian.

  In the dim light, Gruum heard more than saw his wintry smile. Gruum straightened and looked at Therian in confusion. “Escaped what?”

  “Life,” Therian replied. Another smile. Therian then turned and climbed up the way Gruum had just fallen.

  Gruum came after him, more slowly. “Where are we, sire?”

  “In the Dragon’s Maw.”

  “But where is the vortex?”

  Therian extended his hand and pointed upward with a long, slim, black-gloved finger.

  Gruum tilted his head back and looked overhead. Above them, shrouded in roiling mists, rippled the vortex.

  “How will we ever get back up there?”

  Therian chuckled grimly. “When swallowed by a creature, one rarely exits the same way that one entered.”

  Gruum didn’t like the sound of that. He swept his head from side-to-side. It seemed they were upon a distant mountain crag of black rock, climbing to an even higher peak. It was a black night. No sun, moon, nor stars were in evidence.

  “Then we have been devoured?”

  “In effect.”

  Gruum saved his breath for climbing. Black, glassy obsidian cut with crude steps created a steep, treacherous stairway up the side of the crag.

  A sound came to them after a time. It was the long, low howl of an unseen beast. They paused and looked about them, but it seemed impossible to locate the source of the sound.

  “I’ve lost my saber, milord,” hissed Gruum.

  “Keep a sharp eye,” said Therian. “In this place, you may see it again.”

  They continued climbing. Each dozen steps, Gruum looked about, feeling certain that they had reached the summit, but always the mist parted just above them to reveal another dozen steps.

  After a time Gruum had the impression that they were spiraling, and that perhaps they climbed a spire of rock that was wound about by steps. The curvature of the spiral seemed to be tightening, indicating they were nearing the top.

  “We climb a spiral stairway,” said Gruum with certainty. “Is this why you led me to the top of the silver tower in Corium? To see if I could take it?”

  Therian made no reply.

  Perhaps an hour later, it was difficult to say, they reached the last step. It led out upon a glassy plain of black rock that topped the crag. In the midst of the plain squatted an ancient building of hewn and fitted basalt boulders. The windows gleamed with the yellow light of a fire.

  “The Inn,” said Therian, and headed toward it. After the long climb, Therian was left breathing hard and Gruum was badly winded.

  Gruum followed his master, staggering a bit, and wondered what manner of Inn there might be in such a place. But before they reached the entrance to the Inn, Vosh’s dead things ambushed them.

  Gruum barely had time to tug his dagger loose from his belt when one of the things fell upon them. Therian traded sword strokes with the other; Succor rang, sparked and flashed as the King parried. Seeker flashed out, slashing in arcs that glittered in the dim light. Gruum’s attacker, having run out of crossbow bolts, simply attempted to bludgeon Gruum with the crossbow itself.

  Gruum suffered a glancing blow to the head, but slid under it, thrusting up into the vitals with his broad-bladed dagger. The creature’s belly parted with an odd tearing sound, but otherwise it ignored the attack. It lifted the crossbow for another blow.

  Gruum jumped up and circled, ducking another wide swing. This time he slashed at the thing’s face, gashing it open. The creature’s jaw sagged open, unhinged by his cut, but it was not in the slightest deterred. The crossbow caught Gruum on the third try and dashed him to the ground. Gruum rolled away and kicked as his opponent closed for the kill.

  The monster went over the edge of the plateau and tumbled down into the darkness. Gruum rose up painfully. Therian knelt over the remains of the second dead thing.

  “Milord?”

  “I yet live,” said Therian.

  Gruum came to his side. The creature Therian had fought was in a dozen pieces. The pieces—limbs, torso and two halves of a split skull—still squirmed. They seemed to quiver and twist with purpose. They edged toward one another, perhaps attempting to reform a whole body again.

  “I believe that is yours,” said Therian quietly.

  Gruu
m looked at the sword Therian indicated. A set of severed fingers still twitched and grasped at the hilt.

  Gruum reached for the sword, but Therian raised a cautionary hand.

  “It may be your weapon, or it may be only a reflection.”

  Gruum licked his lips. His hand hovered for a moment. “A man without a weapon in this place is as forlorn as a man with a cursed blade,” he said at last. He brushed away the fingers, which tremored and writhed like disturbed earthworms at his touch, and grabbed up the saber.

  In his hand, it felt real enough. He eyed the blade and thought to see a silvery glint there that had no obvious source. He cut at the air experimentally. The weapon seemed sound enough. If anything, it seemed lighter and of better balance than he recalled.

  Therian eyed him as he did so. “Tell me, Gruum, did you dream?”

  “When, milord?”

  “When I awakened you, and you tumbled down the steps and lost the blade.”

  Gruum frowned, trying to recall the elusive moments of a dream torn asunder. “I—I think I did, sire.”

  “And what deals did you do?”

  “Deals?”

  Therian was up and came close to him, peering into his face. “What did you see there? Who did you meet?”

  Gruum took a step backward. He could not help but notice that Seeker and Succor were still in the King’s hands. “Nothing, milord. I met no one.”

  Therian eyed him closely, as if he were not to be believed. “Tell me, Gruum, was it a good dream?”

  “Yes,” nodded Gruum, “I dreamt of home. I dreamt of a warm fire on the hearth in my family lodge. It’s been seven years since I’ve felt such friendly warmth.”

  Therian nodded. He sheathed his curved blades and turned back to the undead thing at his feet.

  Gruum poked at the crawling body parts with the tip of his saber. “Does this mean that Vosh is somewhere near?”

  “Possibly.”

  At the doorstep of the Inn, Therian faltered. He stumbled and went to one knee. Gruum knelt beside him in concern.

  “What is it?”

  “My strength is leaving me,” hissed back Therian.

  Gruum rose and offered his lord a hand. Therian pushed it away and hoisted himself up with great effort. With slow, painful steps he reached for the Inn’s thick door.

  “The strength of the ape has finally given out?”

  Therian only nodded and hobbled forward.

  “But, what of the men that attacked us?” asked Gruum.

  “They weren’t men. They were only dry husks. Souless.”

  Gruum thought about that and shuddered. Therian could only feed upon the living? How far was Therian from becoming like Vosh? How many years of sorcery would it take?

  The heavy, iron-strapped door of the Inn swept open at their knock. Yellow light flooded out and silhouetted a figure. The Innkeep was a friendly woman of the sort you might meet at a marketplace or scullery hall in any town. Here however, in such a desolate spot, her squat, matronly figure seemed oddly-placed.

  “Here, here,” she said as she threw the oaken door wide and illuminated their faces with friendly, warm firelight. They entered gratefully.

  She quickly saw Therian needed help. Her thick arms lifted the king’s arm and together she and Gruum walked him into the common room. The Inn’s oaken door slammed shut behind them. Heavy bolts were shot home.

  -16-

  The interior of the Inn was just as strange and dreary as the exterior.

  “Oi,” said the Innkeep when they had Therian slumped at a table near the fire. “A cold bitter night with rain in store upon the dawn, mark me! Lucky for you I can’t sleep this long winter eve. If I had slept, you might’ve spent hours banging on my door, for I sleep like a lump of coal, I do!”

  “Aye, that she does,” said a younger man with a barrel chest and legs like two tree trunks. He came out from behind the bar into the common room with a welcome pair of mugs in his grasp. Beer frothed from the mugs as he set them upon the table with a friendly nod.

  “I’m Gertrice, I am,” said the Innkeep. “And this here is my witless son, Cagen.”

  Cagen laughed good-naturedly. Gruum reckoned that he had at least half a wit.

  “So, Lord Therian, who is your companion? Or am I rude to be asking?”

  “This is Gruum, madam, my most loyal vassal.”

  Gruum blinked at the title.

  Gertrice eyed Gruum expectantly.

  “I’ve a question, madam,” said Gruum, “You mentioned a long cold night. Do I take this to mean that it is sometimes day here?”

  Gertrice and Cagen laughed at that. “Why, we may be a bit out of the way, but it isn’t so dismal as all that now!”

  Gruum frowned, but Therian caught his eye. Therian shook his head, indicating that he should drop it. Gruum nodded and smiled at the two strangers, wondering if they even realized where they were.

  “Oh!” cried Gertrice, “I’m getting too old, I am! We’ve not tended to your horses. Cagen!”

  Cagen rushed for the door.

  Gruum raised his hand to stop him. “Do not trouble yourselves, we are on foot this eve.” Inside, he wondered how anyone could possibly get a horse up those stone steps. A mountain goat might not have survived it.

  “No horses?” asked Cagen, disappointed.

  “A shame,” sighed Gertrice. “We’ve not seen horses for—” her eyes clouded over. “For a long time.”

  -17-

  Later, after they had supped and half-crept, half-fallen into soft beds of goose down, Therian explained, “They know not where they live. It is as a single, endless night to them, and they are in a waking dream. Always they speak to me of the dawn, but morning never comes.”

  “Seems like someone ought to tell them the truth.”

  Therian laughed. “What for you is truth is another’s lie here. Your words would only disturb them.”

  Gruum thought about that with sagging eyelids. He doused the candle at his bedside and lay back with a sigh. “I wonder if the dawn they wait for will ever come to this place,” he said.

  “Oh aye, it will come. Probably long after you and I have ceased to be, but it will come, and I for one would be glad for a quick death upon that distant morn.”

  Gruum frowned in the darkness. He opened his mouth to ask—but then thought the better of it.

  Sleep came quickly, like an assassin out of the shadows. It stole to his bedside and overpowered his mind, and he felt as if he were suffocating.

  Thrashing about, the Inn’s ancient sheets tore and crumbled to dust at his rough touch. He gasped for air, but could not awaken.

  And then the dreams began.

  -18-

  Gruum found himself at the foot of granite steps. He looked up to see the stairs led to the top of a dais, upon which squatted a great throne of carven basalt. Therian kneeled beside the black throne, upon which sat a lithe female figure with luminous eyes of pale green. The Lady had skin of the palest blue, as might the most frail of the Hyborean highborn. Raven hair and silky skin gave her ethereal beauty. Small breasts floated beneath her gown, a gauzy green fabric that matched her eyes and shimmered when she moved.

  Therian and she seemed intent upon a conversation, which Gruum found difficult to hear.

  Bowing his head again in reverence, Gruum took cautious steps up the dais, kneeling after each stride. Finally, he came close enough to hear the hushed words of the others.

  “I contend that I could do naught else, milady,” said Therian earnestly.

  “Yserth laughs at me. Should you become my champion, ever will he point to the day when Vosh chased you from the field as a maid might shoo vermin away from a kitchen.”

  “But then Vosh had Yserth’s patronage to call upon. The contest was uneven.”

  “Perhaps. I ask you this, Therian: What creeping dog of yours dares approach the green eyes of Anduin, the Black Queen?”

  Gruum felt their eyes turn to him, but he dared not raise his head to fa
ce them.

  “It is my loyal servant, Gruum, milady.”

  “Loyal? Already this dog has betrayed you.”

  Gruum felt a flush come over him. His face reddened and his heart pounded in his temples.

  “How so?” Therian asked quietly.

  Gruum felt cold sweat run down his sides.

  “He has stolen your love, and your hopes for an heir.”

  “Ah,” said Therian easily, “I know this.”

  Gruum chewed his lip, mind racing. He thought of when he had been in the high tower with Therian’s hand upon his back. The King had known of Gruum’s deeds, but had restrained himself. How hard a decision it must have been for Therian to not shove him out into space.

  Anduin sucked in her breath. “Indeed? And the dog yet lives? You are a thinker Therian, you intrigue me.”

  “He is not a dog, but rather a jackal. He has proved useful to me.”

  She addressed Gruum, “Raise thine eyes, jackal.”

  Gruum felt compelled to obey, and he met the goddess’s pale green eyes for the first time. Never had he seen a deeper beauty.

  She released him, and he dropped his eyes again, shuddering.

  “Very well,” said Anduin, “I have allowed Vosh into my domain. You will face him again, and this time you will not flee.”

  “I will stand, milady.”

  “And then you must retrieve my children, as we agreed, and lastly,” here she looked down upon Gruum again, he could feel her eyes upon him, “you must retrieve that which this jackal has stolen.”

  Therian hesitated, “these tasks will light the sun again?”

  Anduin laughed, a cold sound like the rattling of icicles. “No, child. These things will earn you my patronage, much more must be done to rekindle the fire in the heavens.”

  “I will do as you ask.”

  “Then begone,” said Anduin, and Gruum felt himself struck, as if by a great beastly claw.

  -19-

  The claw struck him again, and screaming filled his ears. His eyes fluttered open to find Gertrice shaking him and striking his face.