Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Snorting with disgust, pulling and hauling on the saddle trappings, the Dwarf managed to flounder to the pony’s left fore. “Here, Woman, the rope,” he haughtily commanded.

  Elyn cast the line again, and the Dwarf slipped the loop over the pony’s head, setting it low ’round the neck.

  Elyn took two turns of the rope around the fore cantle, and called, “Back, Wind! Hup!”

  And with Elyn holding tightly to the clinched line and calling out to her mount, and Wind backing and hauling, and the pony thrashing toward safety, and the Dwarf floundering as well through the sucking mire, pulling up behind using the steed’s tail, standing, shoving, at last the horseling was free.

  And so, too, was the Dwarf.

  Elyn could not see just what the detested adversary looked like, for he was covered with muck and slime, and a cloud of insects darted about him; and he smelled of marsh gas—the foul odor of rotten eggs rose up from him and the pony and assailed her nostrils, and she was near to gagging upon the stench of it. Yet, like all Dwarves, he stood somewhere between four and five feet tall—four seven or eight, she judged—with shoulders half again as broad as a Man’s. Other than that she could tell nought, for twilight had fallen unto gloom, and he was but a vague silhouette ’gainst darkness.

  Elyn sat high upon her horse and stared down in loathing at this hated Dwarf, her hand on the pommel of her sword; and he stared up at this hated Rider, a warhammer and double-bitted axe at hand. And neither said aught.

  What would have happened next is not told, for at that very moment, with a squeal of terror, the pony reared up and back and would have bolted had it not been for the rope.

  Sss! Shssh! Seemingly out of nowhere, black-shafted arrows sissed past, hissing of Death in their whispering flight. Wild howls shattered forth from all sides, and a crashing of reeds.

  “Wha—?” cried Elyn, unable to see the deadly bolts sissing through the dark, yet recognizing the sound for what it was; while at the same time “Squam!” shouted the Dwarf, leaping to the pony’s saddle, casting the rope from the horseling’s neck. “Fly!”

  Easterly they bolted, Elyn unaccountably in the lead, drawing her saber. Dark shapes rose up before her: Foe! Armed and attacking!

  Shkkk! Shkkk! Elyn’s saber rived, and black grume spurted forth from wildly swinging enemy as they fell before her blade, dead ere they struck the earth.

  Wind burst through the ring of steel, and suddenly was running free through the rushes. Behind, Elyn could hear the ancient Dwarven battle cry: “Châkka shok! Châkka cor!” And she could hear the Chnnk! of Dwarven hammer smashing through bone, as the pony won free of the ambush as well.

  And in the distance hindward she could hear howls of pursuit.

  Shsss . . . hissed the reeds, slicing like supple swords along Wind’s flanks and Elyn’s legs, as if trying to cut these intruders, to wound them, as horse and rider fled through the dire marsh.

  As they plunged headlong through the thickset rushes, cursing, Elyn cast loose the rope wildly trailing behind from the forecantle horn, fearing that the line would snag to bring down horse and rider alike.

  Elyn could see nought but black on shadow in the hurtling darkness, vague ebon shapes flying by. I can’t keep up this breakneck—

  —Suddenly Wind was floundering belly-deep in water!

  Rach! Hauling hard on Wind’s reins, Elyn pressed the mare back toward the shore. At that moment, the pony galloped up, the Dwarf tugging leftward and back on the halter, stopping.

  “Kruk, Woman,” the Dwarf’s voice rasped out from ebon shadow, “they are hard on our track! You ride as if you are blind!”

  Elyn kicked her heels into Wind’s flanks, shrieking, “You stupid jackass of a Dwarf—”

  Ululating howls split the night. Shsss! Ssszzz! Sisss! Again, black-shafted arrows hissed through the darkness, just as Wind gained the shore.

  “Follow me, Rider; Châkka eyes see better than yours.” The Dwarf spurred the pony forward, straight into the face of a dark shape leaping out of the rushes to bar the way. Chnk! Dwarven warhammer bashed through tulwar to crush the foe’s helm and skull.

  Elyn spurred Wind after the racing pony, as an unseen arrow glanced off her helmet.

  Twisting and darting, the pony ran a zigzag course through the foetid swamp, always bearing easterly, seeking to escape, seeking the far edge of the great Khalian Mire. Elyn did not know just what obstacles the Dwarf dodged, be they sloughs, mires, quags, quicksand, bogs, whatever, and she did not know why she followed, given the circumstances in which she had first found him, but follow she did. Only at times in the flying black did Elyn catch a darkling glimpse of the Dwarf and pony on the twisted course they ran, darting and veering this way and that through the slashing rushes ebon in the night. But it was Wind, not Elyn, who followed; and it was all that the mare could do to keep up with the careening nimble pony.

  Off to the right, Elyn could hear the yawling of enemy voices, and the splash of running pursuit. Through this foul bog the foe knew the way, and they took the short route, seeking to cut off their quarry.

  Again, the pony caromed left, then right, Wind sheering after. Off to the east before them, Elyn could see the Moon rising above the trees, its pale rays glancing silvery across the Mire. Her eyes welcomed the argent orb, for now she could recognize some of the shapes for what they were: hummocks, gnarled trees hung with moss, clumps of tall flowering weeds and clots of rushes in an endless sea of rushes. Too, she began to see what obstacles the Dwarf and pony avoided, as the ever-growing light reflected a-glance from glistening surfaces to right and left, although here and there ’twas not mirrored gleams she saw, but instead the eerie glimmers of spectral will-o’-the-wisps, called ghost-candles by some.

  Breek! Neek! Bra—The voices of the denizens of the swamp fell into silence as the pony and horse splatted past, and a long time passed ere they took up their night song once more.

  Again the pursuing howls grew louder, and now Elyn heard the splash of running feet, ahead to the right and drawing nearer, on a collision course, she gauged. But the Dwarf and pony flew headlong and veered not, for there was the glimmer of water to both sides, and Elyn could only hope that they would dash past the intercept point ere the Spawn got there.

  But that was not to be, for black shapes crashed out of the dark surround, across their flight and behind as well, yawling and shrieking, swinging cudgel and blade. And in the moonlight, Elyn for the first time saw the foe: Rutcha! Rutcha armed with scimitar and tulwar and cudgel and club!

  Each of the Spawn was four-foot high or so, swart skinned, yellow eyed, bandy legged, akimbo armed, batwing eared, leers showing wide-gapped pointed teeth; and they boiled across the course of their victims.

  The Dwarf spurred his pony and Elyn her horse, for there was nought left but to try to smash through.

  As Elyn bore down upon the fore group, Rutch cudgel bashed into her leg, and her right foot fell numb. Too, she took a tulwar cut across her left arm, and she could feel hot blood runnelling with the sweat beneath her leathers.

  Shkk! Elyn’s saber sheared through the elbow of the Rutch grasping at her stirrup, her aim deadly in the pale moonlight, and he fell away howling and clutching a gushing stump. Two more jumped in her way, but she spurred Wind and ran trampling over them, and once again burst through the ring of iron. Ahead of her fled the pony and Dwarf, his hammer asplash with dark blood.

  Thrice more that perilous night did Rutcha bar the way, for to intercept them the Foul Folk took byways not known to the twain, whereas the two of them twisted along a tortuous route in the grip of a sodden land, avoiding bogs and such. And each time set against, the pair charged through, shouting battle cries and smashing and riving, hammer and saber, horse and pony scattering the Rutcha. Oh, they did not come away unscathed, for though unskilled, still the Rutcha got in many a telling blow, and the two were sorely assailed in the final encounter.

  Yet at last, battered and bleeding, they broke free of the clench o
f the great Khalian Mire, coming upon its eastern edge, where pony and mare could run free across the Aralan lowlands, on the road to Destiny.

  CHAPTER 3

  Skaldfjord

  Spring, 3E1601

  [Last Year]

  Down from the Steppes of Jord they came, forty strong. They were proud, and hard, and they rode upon swift, fiery steeds, for they were Vanadurin, these fair-haired Men. Grim were their visages, and resolute, and their flinty eyes swept outward, scouring the land, for they were on a mission of daring and danger.

  Down o’er the shield rock they fared in a column of twos, steel-shod hooves hammering upon the glacial stone. Sabers, long-knives, bows and arrows, spear-lances, all were scabbarded for the long-ride, though each would easily come to hand should the need arise. Steel helms the Men wore, dark and glintless, yet bearing gauds of horsehair and horns and wings flaring. Fleece vests covered chain-link shirts, and long cloaks were wrapped ’round, to ward the icy chill of a thin dawn mist flowing up from the distant shrouded ocean and over the sheer seawall cliffs and out upon this high stark land of stone.

  In the fore on a jet-black steed rode a copper-haired, green-eyed warrior, a youth who had come into his manhood but seven summers past—yet he was Captain of this band, though his helm was adorned by nought. At his side rode a grizzled veteran, a grey frosting upon his flaxen locks, and dark raven’s wings spread back from the steel of his cap. ’Twas Elgo, the youth, and Ruric, his Lieutenant; and behind came thirty-eight more of the fair Harlingar. They were bound for Skaldfjord upon the Boreal Sea.

  It was early spring of the year 3E1601, a time when the Vanadurin still dwelt in the northern realms, in Jord, their Wanderjahr yet to come, centuries removed, when they would wrest the great grassy plains of Valon from the Usurper in Caer Pendwyr. Many would leave the Jordreichs then, when the War of the Usurper was done. And they would settle at last far to the south upon the wide sweep of that green Land, consecrated by the blood of their dead, a Realm the rightful High King would award to the Harlingar for their part in overthrowing the foul Pretender.

  But that was yet to be, some four hundred years hence; and in the time of this telling, all Vanadurin still roamed the high Jordian Steppes, where the soft summers were green and flowering and full of light and warmth in the long, long days; while the harsh winters were ice and wind and strange shifting colors draped in curtains of werelight high in the auroral night.

  But now it was spring, when the blood stirs, and spirits surge, and Men set forth to do those things planned in the long frigid tides of darkness.

  Such was the case with Elgo. And he had gathered a Warband of forty Harlingar eager to help him, though but thirty-nine now rode at hand, for one had gone ahead.

  Tall and proud he was, and a Prince of the Realm, for he was King Aranor’s only son and would be next to lead the Harlingar. Yet Elgo was not content to stay at Court, tending to the tedious affairs of State. Nay, like his sire before him, Elgo the youth was a Man of action: why, it was not but two spring seasons agone that Prince Elgo, acting alone upon his winter-conceived plan, by stealth and cunning and sheer bravery, single-handedly slew Golga, cruel Ogru of Kaagor Pass, a long, strait, plumb-walled notch high in the Grimwalls. And the death of this great Troll had made that tradeway safe once more.

  And ere that feat there were other bold ventures—such as the time the Prince and a sparse few routed the Naudron interlopers back across the eastern marge, back into their own icy Realm; or the three-day chase across the highfjelt in pursuit of Flame, the red stallion, trapping the great stud at last in the blue waters of Skymere; or the day Elgo stole beautiful Arianne from under the very nose of Hagor, bearing the fair maiden home upon the withers of Shade to become his bride.

  Yet, alone, these deeds or others of Elgo’s derring-do are not what drew Men to his banner, nor did they come because he was Aranor’s son; instead it was because the Prince was a canny leader, as well as being a mighty warrior—in spite of his youth, in spite of his rash pride . . . or perhaps because of it—and where he went there was adventure.

  And now Elgo had another plan.

  And this time he was after Dracongield!

  As the morning aged, the wan mist fled before the rising Sun. And the riders came at last to the high windblown brow of the craggy sea-cliffs. Below, the ocean boomed against ancient rock, hurling sand and salt and wave upon the adamant foe, advancing but grain by grain in the endless strife, imperceptibly gaining along this front; while at distant elsewheres, along abyssal rifts, molten magma spewed forth from the guts of the world, and just as imperceptibly, new land slowly crept up from out of the darkling depths as the eternal struggle for dominion went on.

  North along this one front of the ceaseless elemental War turned the column, the Men hearing but not heeding the great battle below.

  Two more hours the Harlingar coursed northward, finally coming to a narrow inlet trapped between steep-walled, fir-laden cliffs. It was Skaldfjord: deep, crystalline Skaldfjord. Like a monstrous stroke from some great giant’s axe, the fjord clove down through the stony land and far into the ocean floor, icy flux from the Boreal Sea rushing in to fill the dark chasm. Although the waters of Skaldfjord were crystalline, they were so deep as to take on the aspect of black. And the great notch went slashing through the land to the east ere curving away north, the chill ebon waters passing from view beyond the bend; and this way along the lofty rim went the Men.

  As they rounded the high turn at last, far before them and down at the water’s edge they could see a small fjordside settlement: dwellings huddled together behind a pine palisade be-ringing all.

  When the fortified hamlet came into view, Elgo raised his hand, and the column juddered to a halt, horses blowing, leather creaking. And long the Vanadurin sat and looked.

  Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys here and there, and movement could be glimpsed among the buildings afar.

  Yet it was not the village alone that drew upon their eyes, for tethered to shoreline pilings rode four Dragonships, their great lengths made small by the distance. There, too, were moored three deep-sea knorrs, the cargo vessels dwarfed by their sleek-flanked neighbors. And here and there rode fishing boats, bobbing about like corks.

  Signalling the Men to dismount, Elgo gathered the warriors close about him. And he spoke to them in Valur, the ancient Battle-tongue of the Harlingar, his voice quiet, yet all could hear him.

  “[Harlingar, ot i markere fram . . . ] Sons of Harl, from this point onward we will say nought of our mission, for idle ears could overhear—ears that may ken the talk of even the Vanadurin. And should unforeseen disaster befall us, then our plans would be in the grasping hands of these others, and the treasure we seek, lost.

  “Yon stands our first goal: Skaldfjordstad. You can see that Reynor has met his task, for the Dragonships below are to bear us to the shores of that far Land where lies our distant aim. These ships will be crewed by Fjordsmen—they know the ways of the sea, whereas we do not. Yet even these staunch allies are not to be taken into our counsel, for it is said that the curse of Dracongield acts in strange ways upon the hearts of Men.

  “Heed! Henceforth, remain silent concerning our quest. If it becomes vital to speak of it, speak only in Valur, for it is a tongue known to but a few not of Strong Harl’s blood—and even then couch your words most cryptically.”

  Elgo’s eyes swept across those of his Men, and resolute eyes returned his gaze, for none would have the prize fall into hands other than those of the Vanadurin.

  Elgo nodded to Ruric, and at the greyling warrior’s sharp command all remounted, and the column spurred toward the distant village. Yet a solitary thought spun over and again through Ruric’s mind: If the curse o’ Dracongield acts in strange ways upon the hearts of Men, my proud Prince, what then will it do to each o’ us?

  As they rode down a steeply canted path wending through the pine-shrouded fjordwall, there came from below the flat-pitched sound of a black-oxen horn: Ta-r
oo! Ta-roo! Tan-tan, ta-roo! [All is clear! All is clear! Horsemen and allies, the way is clear!]

  At this call Elgo raised his own dark horn to his lips. Ra-tan-ta! [I answer!]

  On down the path they rode, soon breaking free of the trees, coming at last to the open area standing before the thorp, the land cleared as a defense against skulking raiders.

  Elgo reined Shade to a halt, the black obeying instantly. And all of the Vanadurin spread wide and stopped as well, flanking their Prince, with Ruric at Elgo’s side, all weapons remaining scabbarded.

  Out from the shadows of the palisades rode young Reynor upon a bay, and as he neared, it could be seen that his blue eyes sparkled, and a great smile split his features.

  “Hál, my Prince!” cried the blond youth, but a year younger than Elgo’s own scant twenty-two summers. “The stad awaits your pleasure!” And he turned and signalled to the sentries along the walls.

  As the column of Harlingar rode in through the open wooden gates, Elgo could see that the town entire had assembled to see this visiting Prince. Yet here and there among these fisherfolk his eyes also saw the harder visages of others, of warriors, of Dragonship crews. Fjordsmen were they all, yet some drew their living from the sea, while others plied the sea for their living.

  The Fjordsmen’s hair and beards were yellow and copper and red, and their skin was fair, or ruddy—and some sported great wide moustachios. Flaxen and honey and auburn tresses adorned the women, and they bore pale complexions, and some were freckled. And everywhere, clear blue eyes looked forth upon the riders.

  A fair Folk were they, and in this they were like unto the Vanadurin; but this did not surprise Elgo, for it was said that Fjordsmen and Harlingar had sprung from the same root. Yet one Folk took to the sea in ships, while the other roamed ahorse the seas of grass.