Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  A grim smile lit Elyn’s features. “Lead on, Pathfinder; I follow.”

  Out from the scant shelter into the yawling howl pressed the twain, afoot, pulling stubborn frightened steeds after. And screaming blinding whiteness swallowed them, pummeling, hammering, sucking the heat from them and hurtling it upon frigid black stone. Yet they toiled onward, bending double in the whelming blast.

  Hours fled, and still they struggled upward, stumbling, falling, rising again to go on, each step now a torture, their breath ragged and burning, seeking the fold seen by Thork. And still the white wind crashed upon them, ice shards coating them from crown to foot, weighing them down with its burden.

  Night fell, yet it is moot whether or not they even noted the darkness, for the only thing that mattered was the struggle upward. And when the shrieking day gradually transformed into dark howling night, two gasping comrades leading two blowing steeds did nought but fight onward, collapsing, rising, tumbling, getting up, falling in exhaustion, fatigue mercilessly dragging them down, slipping, failing to catch themselves, their hearts hammering with effort, struggling up and on, the wind tearing at them, their warmth fled from them, their energy all but gone.

  And for perhaps the hundredth time in a mile Elyn collapsed, falling in the thigh-deep snow, yet this time she did not rise again. Thork stumbled back unto her, and managed to get her upon the withers of Wind, the horse trembling with fatigue.

  Back he turned, leading both steeds upward, struggling onward in what he now deemed to be a hopeless cause, yet his stubborn Châk pride would not let him surrender. Upward another mile or so they struggled, taking forever, and then Wind fell, the grey whelming down into the snow, unconscious Elyn pinned beneath.

  Weary beyond measure, Thork managed to free her, dragging her from under the downed horse. Swiftly Thork examined the motionless Princess, and nought seemed broken. And then he tried to get the mare to her feet, but Wind was dead, slain by a blizzard, the grey’s valiant heart bursted by a struggle beyond her endurance.

  Placing Elyn across the back of Digger, Thork plodded onward, toiling upward, laborious step upon laborious step, chilled beyond measure. Yet forward he went. And the yawling, hammering wind shoved and pounded and mauled him, and ice slashed across his path, and snow barred his way, yet into the screaming blast he pressed, a furlong and then another, fighting for what seemed like hours. And then the pony fell and lay in the snow, its breath coming in grunting gasps.

  Again Thork pulled the Princess free. And then he crawled upon hands and knees to Digger’s head, and standing, the Dwarf tried to get the pony to its feet. Yet Thork had not the strength to do so, and he fell back into the snow, Digger’s head in his lap. Ten, fifteen more breaths the pony drew, and then, with a sigh, stopped. And even as Thork watched, the great soft brown eyes glazed over. And in the shrieking, yammering wind, Thork reached out a gnarled hand and scratched the little faithful steed one last time between the ears, and then turned back to the Princess.

  Struggling, snow and ice blasting into him, Thork managed to hoist Elyn across his shoulders, and stumbled upward, fighting onward, his mind dazed by a fatigue beyond reckoning. Yet on he went, and the yowling night raged about him, howling, yawling, yammering.

  Time and again, Thork fell, each fall taking an immeasurable toll. Yet each time the Dwarf managed to gain his feet and hoist Elyn up again. No longer did he know his goal; no longer did he know why he strove to ascend the slopes of this Mountain; no longer did he know that a blizzard raged across the range and thundered down upon him. The only thing that he knew was that he must go on, with Elyn, upward.

  And still the snow hurled into him, the wind sucked at his diminishing heat, the ice stung his unseeing eyes. The buffeting, pummeling shriek knocked him down time and again, and he would get to his feet, each time more slowly, gather up Elyn, and go on yet once more. And his world was filled with nought but screamings and yawlings of the blast.

  Yet in the yammering of the storm he seemed to hear a voice calling. Sounding out his name. Was it his father? Urging him on? This way, son. This way. And, his breath sobbing in great gasps, his vision blurred, his legs but barely under his control, pressed to his uttermost, he pushed onward, his progress measured in yards, in feet, in steps. This way, son.

  “Yes, Father, I am coming!” he called out, his sobbing words whipped into the night by the wind.

  And the hurtling ice and raging shriek slammed at him and tried to hold him back, and hip-deep snow clutched at his legs and feet like a massive hand barring his way; yet Thork, son of Brak, DelfLord of all of Kachar, struggled forward, his breath rasping outward in blasts of white vapor, his beard laden with the crystalline ice of its freezing. And Elyn was a forgotten burden across his shoulders, yet a burden nonetheless; and he reeled and staggered and lost his footing to fall at last before a carven iron gate in a hidden fold of land.

  And the blizzard hammered down upon his still form, clawing at his unmoving figure, tearing at his winter cloak, trying to rend the scant protection from him.

  Finally, the Dwarf moved, struggling up to his knees, slumping back to a sitting position, leaning sideways against the iron portal. And underneath the howl of the wind, an eddying moan seemed to call: My son. My son.

  His mind a maze, Thork looked up uncomprehendingly, not seeing at first. But then perhaps by instinct alone, he pulled himself to his feet, using the great studs riveted into the metal to do so. And he peered across the expanse of iron, but no door-ring, no handle did he see; yet even had there been one, he would not have had the wherewithal to comprehend its use. And the raging wind howled down into the fold of land where he had gotten to, and its frigid blast mauled him.

  My axe, my hammer, I will whelm upon the door, knock for entrance. But neither weapon was at hand, lying buried in the snow somewhere behind, buried with all their goods, buried with Digger, buried with Wind.

  Thork hammered upon the gate with the butt of his fist, yet he had no strength and made no impression.

  “Father, let me in,” he cried, weeping, leaning against the metal, clutching at the studs, pounding ineffectually upon the cold iron. “In the name of Adon and Elwydd, Father, let me in.”

  At the invocation of the Allfather’s name the portal began to open outward, soft yellow light streaming forth through the widening crack and out into the ravaging wind and hurling ice.

  Thork staggered backwards, falling, sprawling in the snow, barely conscious, the wind-shattered amber luminance scattering over him. Groaning, Thork rolled over and lay with his face pressed into the cold whiteness. And the wind howled in fury. Finally, he managed to get to his hands and knees. Yet he did not know what to do, nor did he even know where he was. But at last he began to crawl forward, toward the light.

  Yet wait! Something was . . . wrong, but his fatigue-’wildered mind could not fathom its nature. Blearily, his eyes swept right and left. And there at hand lying in the snow was a female, a Human, her red hair splayed about pallid features, a wind-driven drift even now spilling across her inanimate body, burying its victim. Elyn!

  Thork crawled to her unmoving form, and after a seemingly endless time he forced himself to stand, trembling with exhaustion beyond all accounting. With an unimaginable effort, he managed to scoop her up—reaching the very last limit of his strength. Turning, reeling, he staggered toward the light, gasping and sobbing in the extremity his struggle, bearing a Princess, noting the whiteness of her face, the blueness of her lips. And agonized words moaned out past his labored rasping—“Don’t die, my Summer Queen, don’t die”—as Thork, on the verge of foundering, tottered forward, faltering step after faltering step, lurching, stumbling, until at last he reeled into the chamber within, staggering sideways to fetch up against a marble wall where he collapsed into total oblivion.

  And behind, the great iron door began to swing shut; and the blizzard raged and the wind shrieked and ice hurtled against the closing portal. Yet the gate swung to Boom! leaving the Hèlspawn
ed storm to howl and yawl and whelm upon the great shut door, as if it were a vast amorphous creature shrieking for entry, a squalling demand that would not be met.

  And in the very moment of the portal’s closing, in a dark fortress to the north, the invisible aura of a hammer, of a warhammer, of the Kammerling ceased to pulse, for even that mighty token of power could not sense aught within the warded Wizardholt of Xian.

  CHAPTER 30

  Sanctuary

  Early Summer, 3E1602

  [This Year]

  In the midst of the morn at the foot of the vale before the gates of Kachar, Aranor rode Flame through the dew-wet grass out upon the empty field and reined to a halt, his eyes sweeping the length of the coming battleground. And the thick stench of death oozed down the swale and pooled at its bottom. In the distance, up the valley to its head, great flocks of vultures and ravens and crows squabbled upon the carcasses of the slain horses, pecking at one another, rushing forward with necks and beaks and wings extended, battling o’er the choicest feeding, though there was more than enough for all. Now and again when fighting became too fierce, great squawking black clouds of the scavengers would rise up and then settle back to greedily resume the rending and tearing and tossing of torn flesh down bottomless gullets.

  Lord Death’s familiars, thought Aranor, revulsed by the raucous gluttony, the stripping of the bones of steeds once noble.

  Riding a black, Gannor joined Aranor, and the two eyed the distant grisly feast. “Damned gorcrows!” cursed Gannor.

  “Aye,” said Aranor. “But think upon this, cousin of mine: Ever do the tides of combat shift from one side to another, yet ’tis the scavengers who reap the folly of battle. If there be victors in War, then yon be the eternal victors, for they risk nought, yet gain all to their liking.”

  “What you say is true, Aranor,” replied Gannor, “still they be ever damned to hang back on the fringes, nervously eyeing the brave and the bold. Never will they step up and be counted. Never will they defend that which they deem to be Just.”

  “Aye, Gannor, cowards are they all,” mused Aranor. “Yet by that same token they will never fall in a cause thrust upon them by a Liege Lord, Just or not.”

  Another great squawking, squabbling cloud flew up and milled about in the slanting light of rising day ere settling back.

  “Damn,” growled Gannor, shifting in his saddle, leather creaking, “these birds be not what it is that preys on my mind. Instead it be the Dwarves: mighty warriors. For every one we fell, nearly two of ours are slain.”

  “Not only mighty, Gannor,” responded Aranor, “but clever and cunning as well. No matter our tactics, they have anticipated them, and set into motion counter moves that nullify our strengths and magnify our weaknesses.”

  “ ’Tis this straight-walled vale,” spat Gannor, gesturing to both sides. “Were we out upon the plains, then would these Dwarves feel our strength. Then would the tide of battle shift to us.”

  “Aye,” agreed Aranor. “This be a narrow lieu indeed. ’Tis hard to flank their formations, hard to round on them from the rear, hard to cleave through their center when their backs are ’gainst stone rises, and their sides be warded by the unyielding rock as well.”

  “And their pole arms are grounded in the vale slope, and their crossbow quarrels fly through the air like sleet,” finished Gannor. “Too, they have some mighty champions.”

  “That one with the shield of broken light,” muttered Aranor.

  “And the flashing warhammer,” added Gannor. And then after a pause: “Their King be no slouch wi’ an axe, either.”

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” exclaimed Aranor. “How can such puissant warriors be consumed by greed?”

  Ere Gannor could voice an opinion, Reachmarshals Vaeran and Richter rode forth from the silver trees and joined the King and his cousin. Battle lay before them, and they sat ahorse and sighted up the vale and reviewed the plans they had laid the night before.

  And ravens and crows and vultures, feathers ruddy with gore, squabbled and squawked and rent flesh, their heads and beaks plunging deep within gaping carcasses, plucking forth dangling gobbets of torn meat, gulping down tidbits oozing with dark blood, their gimlet eyes ever on the alert for predators, ready to flee at the first sign of danger, especially danger in the form of those two-legged ravagers who for some unfathomable reason, a reason beyond understanding, had slaughtered and then left behind this plethora of ripe juicy flesh.

  “Kruk!” cursed Baran, “if my reckoning be right, we slay nearly two of the thieves for each warrior of ours that falls.” The DelfLord tested the sharpened edge of his axe with his thumb and turned to his brother. Thork stood with a grit stone, roughing the leather-wrapped half of his warhammer. “On the face of it,” Baran continued, “that would seem to give us advantage, yet their numbers and ours are such that as we slaughter them and they slaughter us our ranks will dwindle down till there be just two of them left alive to fight a last battle with but one of us; and after that final conflict, War’s end will find no one left alive.”

  “Damn Riders!” exclaimed Thork. “Yet heed me, Baran: these brigands can count as well as we, hence I deem that after but one more battle, they will withdraw from the field, running home with their tails between their legs.”

  “Aye, brother of mine,” responded Baran, “I think you have the right of it, for the numbers of their dead are great indeed. Yet they come from a Race that breeds like lemmings, and in but a few short years their bratlings will swarm upon their hearths. We on the other hand are slow to bear young, and so our own losses cut to the quick. And even though two of them fall to each of our one, in the long run it is we who suffer the greater damage.

  “There is this, as well: even should they run, still they will hold in their clutch that which is rightfully ours, locked away in the vaults below their keep.”

  Thork pondered Baran’s last statement a moment. “Then, brother, I say that we gather our kindred—from the Quartzen Hills, from Mineholt North, from the Red Hills, from the Sky Mountains, and from mighty Kraggen-cor—and march upon these looters in numbers too great to deny, and take back that which they stole.”

  “Aye, we will, should it come to that,” said Baran after a pause.

  In that moment, the door to the work chamber opened and a Châk herald stepped to Baran’s side. “My Lord, the Riders gather at the foot of the vale.”

  Baran raised an eye to Thork, and the Prince nodded, setting his glitterbright shield upon his left arm, taking warhammer in hand.

  “Then let us fare forth unto the killing field and reap the bloody harvest,” said Baran grimly, fitting his metal helmet in place, steel wings flaring up and back, buckling the chin strap, catching up his axe by the helve.

  Out from the chamber they strode, making their way to the great assembly hall behind the outer gates. And there massed were nearly twenty-one hundred Châkka. And when Baran trod into the wide chamber there came a great roar of voices, and the dinning clack of axe and hammer upon buckler. And DelfLord Baran stepped in among the ranks, and held up his hands for quiet. When silence fell at last, he spoke, raising his voice so that all could hear:

  “A band of thieves and looters struts before our gates and seeks to burst in. Yet they shall not gain entrance, for we shall repel these robbers at our door. We shall stand upon our ground come what may. Know this: that we are in the right. Fight with honor the foe with no honor.” Baran swept an axe from the grip of a warrior at hand, and crossing it with his own he held the two weapons on high, and they were like unto the black and silver standard above. “Vengeance for Brak and Blackstone!” he cried.

  Vengeance for Brak and Blackstone! rolled forth a mighty shout from the assembled warriors.

  And at a signal from the DelfLord, behind them the great inner gates of Kachar ground shut, sealing off the passages to the interior, while before them the outer gates swung open, admitting the glancing golden light of the morning.

  Out marched the Châkka, relen
tless and silent, the tread of their boots hard upon the stone of the foregate courtyard—axes, hammers, pole arms, crossbows, quarrels, shields, chain, helms—arms and armor glittering ruddily in the bright Sun.

  And as they marched outward, great clouds of squawking scavengers rose up into the morn, fleeing in raucous panic before these grim destroyers.

  And down at vale’s foot sat the might of the Harlingar, ahorse, line upon line of mounted warriors, spears bristling to the sky.

  The Vanadurin Host watched as the Dwarven Army tramped out from the gate, scattering shrieking gorcrow and silent vulture unto the skies, the birds wheeling like swirling dark leaves before a twisting wind.

  Out marched the Dwarves, across the head of the valley, coming to a halt in a long curved formation: concave, many Dwarves deep.

  “I like this not,” growled Gannor. “The enemy stands along a great cupped bend, inviting us to ride within, to smash through their center, as is our wont. Yet heed: though they have tried to conceal it, most of their archers stand along the wings; the crossfire will be murderous . . . doubly so from Dwarven crossbow.”

  Aranor looked long. “Hai, you are right, Gannor. This be the first time we have seen the jaws of the trap ere they spring it.”

  “My Lord,” queried Marshal Roth, “how know we that this be a true trap? Mayhap they have another trick in mind, and merely show us this formation to draw us into the genuine scheme of their cunning.”

  “Aye,” agreed Reachmarshal Vaeran, “this could be but a stratagem to lure us into an altogether different snare, a snare that we will not fathom until it is too late.”

  “Bah!” snorted Gannor in frustration. “Tricks, stratagems, snares. I say we take it on the face of what we can see, and not dwell upon the unknown and the unknowable. This be the formation that they have spread into. Let us deal with it and not with phantom arrangements, phantom moves as yet unseen.”