“Haste, Princess,” cried Thork, “we must be gone from here. Should more Khōls come, as this one did, then we will not survive, for it is said that they can only be slain by beheading, by dismemberment, by a silver blade, by wood through the heart, or by fire.”
Removing her pack, Elyn stepped to Andrak’s corpse and reached down to take the cloak, while outside, the swirling wind groaned past the stone casement, driving chill currents eddying into the chamber. And as she unfastened the clasp, Andrak’s head collapsed, as if the silveron nugget had burned it hollow, leaving nought but a flaccid empty bag behind. And a hideous stench puffed out into the room. Sickened, gagging, drawing back in revulsion, holding her breath and turning her face to one side, still Elyn loosed the cloak and pulled it free.
Standing, taking deep breaths, she donned the garb, her eyes scanning the floor, her glance seeking to avoid the Guul’s head, not finding what she searched for. “The whip, Thork. Where is the whip? I cannot see it in this darkness and I will need it.”
Kneeling down and peering under, Thork’s Dwarven eyes quickly spotted the lash beneath a bench, and he retrieved it and held it out to Elyn.
Drawing the hood over her coppery hair, her face falling into shadow, Elyn took the whip and caught up her pack and gritted, “Let’s go.”
Down the stairwell they went, stepping through viscid dark blood and past the beheaded corpse of the Guul. On the way across the alchemical laboratory, shifting his axe to one hand, Thork caught up an igniter lying nearby and shoved it into an outer pocket, then with his free hand he scooped up one of the glass burners filled with zhar.
And on down the stairs they pressed, and came into the bottom chamber. Setting her pack beside the open door, Elyn peered out through the dark portal, the wind moaning past. Still the ranks of the wayguard formed a chariot pathway to the open gate, the swirling chill breeze stirring cloaks, and there was a restless shifting among the ranks. “The honorguard seems on edge, Thork; mayhap they suspect that something is amiss; mayhap they are just cold. Regardless, the chariot seems our best way out. But look you: there are two uneasy attendants at the rig to be dealt with first. Your crossbow. Stay hidden in the doorway. As I take the one on the left by saber, shoot the one on the right, then grab everything and come running.”
Thork set aside his axe and the glass burner, and unslung his bow and cocked it, placing a quarrel in the groove, nodding to the Princess when he was ready.
Tugging the hood down over her features, Elyn stepped forth from the doorway, whip in her left hand, saber hidden under the cloak in her right, her fingers clutching the cloth to keep the sharp eddying wind from revealing the blade. And with her heart hammering, she strode down the steps and toward the chariot.
The instant the cloaked, hooded figure emerged from the tower, all eyes in the wayguard snapped to the fore, each warder staring directly across the living corridor into the face of the warder opposite.
As Elyn approached the chariot, the two Spawn attendants grovelled on the cobbles. Yet when the Princess stepped next to the Rutcha on the left, he quickly glanced up, cringing, expecting a blow, and in that moment his eyes widened in surprise; but ere he could call out, Elyn’s saber took him through the throat, and he died in astonishment. Elyn spun, bringing her blade to bear upon the remaining Rutch, but even as she did so, he crumpled to the cobbles, red quarrel jutting from his left eye, and Thork came dashing down the steps, his hands bearing axe and crossbow and burner, Elyn’s pack looped over a shoulder.
The Warrior Maiden sprang into the chariot, catching up the reins, stabbing the point of her saber into the wooden floorboards, for she had no time to sheathe the blade. And as Thork leapt aboard, sliding forward and down, tucking in behind the shieldwall of the vehicle, concealing himself, with a sharp crack Elyn lashed the whip onto the Hèlsteed, crying “Yah! Yah!” and with irate squeals, the ’Steeds surged forward, gathering speed, and in but a few strides were running full tilt, the chariot racing toward the wayguarders, toward the gate, toward the bridge, toward the road, toward freedom.
But just as the vehicle thundered into the honorguard corridor, Fortune turned Her grim face down upon the bailey, and the swirling night breeze and the swift wind of Elyn’s passage combined to blow the cloakhood back from the Warrior Maiden’s head, and her clear features and flaming red hair sprang forth for all to see! And as they hammered past, those behind also could see that a Dubh lay concealed within!
And shouts of alarm rang out as the chariot thundered between the ranks; behind, Guula on Hèlsteeds reined about and plunged after, while ahead, corpse-foe rode outward to bar the way; the guards atop the barbican saw the turmoil and the red-haired imposter, and began cranking frantically, and the great portcullis squealed downward, the fangs of the iron barway plummeting toward the socket holes in the stone road below. “Yah! Yah!” cried Elyn, “Yah!” cracking the whip, and the trio of Hèlsteeds crashed through the Guula barring the way, the chariot jolting behind, thundering past, slamming across the cobbles toward the plunging teeth of the falling iron barrier, Guula racing after, Thork inside banging about, hanging on for all he was worth. “Oowwahhh!” cried Elyn, ducking down inside the chariot as the Hèlsteeds hurtled under the plummeting fangs and through the passage below the barbican, the rig and Elyn and Thork hurling after, the plunging teeth of the great portcullis glittering wickedly, crashing down just behind with a juddering DOON! cutting off pursuit. And Elyn swiftly stood and haled hard leftward on the reins just as the ’Steeds emerged from the fortress, for a thousand-foot drop was but yards ahead. Squealing in pain, left veered the Hèlsteeds, the chariot careening behind, swinging wide, wheels skidding sideways across cold stone, the iron rim of the rightmost wheel slamming along but mere inches from the sheer drop. And toward the drawbridge hammered the juggernaut, and black-shafted arrows hissed from the fortress battlements, striking all about. And then cloven hooves and iron-rimmed wheels boomed onto the wooden span, and as they thundered across the way, Thork threw the glass burner of zhar onto the bridge, the vessel flaming. How he had managed to light the wick while jolting about on the floor of a bouncing chariot cannot be explained, yet light it he had. And now the burning flask shattered as it smashed upon the wooden bridge, and fire splashed outward, the incendiary zhar blasting into intense flame, the span ablaze. And in its ruddy glow, down the companion spire raced the Hèlsteed chariot, Elyn and Thork aboard, on the road to freedom, spiralling down the dark stone, now beyond arrow shot. And Elyn cracked the whip and cried, “Ah god, but Ruric told me that chariot training would be of no use. Would that he could have seen this night!”
Yet ere they reached bottom, Thork, now standing, gripping the warrior rails, pointed upward, sounding warning, for dark shapes galloped out from the strongholt above and thundered across the span, leaping over the windblown flames and dashing down the crag.
The portcullis had been raised, and Guula were in pursuit.
Down to the foot of the spire sped the chariot, while above, Guula on Hèlsteeds raced after, looping ’round the black rock, hurtling downward. Out onto the road across the open flat hammered the troika, haling the chariot after, Elyn letting the Hèlsteeds find the route, for it was yet too dark for her to see aught but ebon shapes in the waning night.
“Your eyes, Thork!” she cried. “Guide me!”
And Thork peered through the darkness and shouted directions, as down the road they thundered.
Southward they ran to the bend in the road, then swung northerly, thundering alongside a crevasse. And as they fled northward, the Guula reached the bottom of the crag and hammered cross-’scape, Hèlsteeds aimed on an intercept course.
“The Khōls cut across the land, Princess,” called Thork, taking up his crossbow and bracing himself as he cocked it, “seeking to cut us off.”
“Yah! Yah!” cried Elyn, whip cracking sharply. North they ran, passing the point of intersection, fleeing through the waning night. But within heartbeats, the force of Guula p
ounded onto the road behind them, ghastly howls rending the darkness, yawls of triumph, for they steadily gained upon their quarry. And swiftly the land rose up on their right, until they ran beside ramparts that pitched upward ever more steeply as the road ran toward and then alongside the grey stone feet of looming mountains.
“They overtake,” called Thork, shouting to be heard above the hammering hooves and slamming wheels.
“Their ’Steeds are fresh, Thork,” shouted Elyn back, now able to dimly see, “and these are worn, for they were driven hard by Andrak. Yet can we outrun them for a few minutes more. . . .” And she cracked the whip and glanced at the paling sky above.
But slowly the yawling Guula drew nigh the fleeing chariot, and now were but paces behind and closing.
Zzzthock! Thork loosed a crossbow bolt, and it struck a wauling Guul in the forehead, the creature pitching backwards over the cantle, striking the ground and tumbling slack-limbed. And other riders behind thundered o’er the top of him, cloven hooves pounding. And bones broke. Yet the Guul got to his feet, and jerked out the offending quarrel, and started after his loose-running Hèlsteed! And then Thork knew that what legend said, was true. These creatures indeed were nearly unkillable.
Even so, that Guul was now out of the chase, at least for the moment, and so Thork cocked his bow again and loaded another shaft. This time when he shot, the bolt sissed into the stomach of the nearest overtaking foe, the point jutting out his back, all to no effect, for the creature spurred nearer, ignoring the quarrel.
“Their ’Steeds, Thork!” cried Elyn. “Shoot their ’Steeds!”
And thundering down the road in the back of a jolting, racing chariot, Hèlsteeds in pursuit, Thork again managed to cock his bow. Yet now the howling Guula had overtaken the vehicle, and they bore cruel barbed spears, and the nearest drew back his arm and hurled the shaft at them. Thork snatched up his shield, fending the missile, blang! the lance glancing to the ground, tumbling point over haft.
Again Thork caught up his crossbow and slapped in a bolt and shouldered the weapon and shot, thakk! the quarrel piercing into the chest of a running ’Steed, the mount pitching forward and down, somersaulting hind over fore, smashing atop the yawling Guul rider.
And again, spears were hurled, and once more Thork took up his shield and fended them aside.
But to the left, a yawling Guul raced forward, past the chariot, to run alongside the team haling the rig; and he drew back his lance to hurl into the heart of the leftmost Hèlsteed. But Elyn lashed out with the whip, the tip striking the spearblade and spinning about, entangling the barbs; and she jerked back, wrenching the lance from his grip, yanking the spear free, the shaft falling to the ground to tumble and bound, snagging on rocks, wedging, jerking the whip from Elyn’s hand.
Cloven hooves hammering, the Guul fell back alongside the rig, and drew in close, and with a ghastly howl, leapt from his Hèlsteed toward the chariot; but Elyn wrenched her saber out of the floor and impaled the Guul through the chest as he hurtled through the air, losing her grip on the hilt as the creature jolted back. And he fell short, outside, but still managed to clutch the top rail. And down the road they thundered, the transfixed Guul slowly drawing himself up and over the chariot side, saber notwithstanding; and up he came, this unkillable thing with evil dead black eyes, with pallid dead white flesh, with a red slash of a mouth grinning, revealing yellowed, stained teeth. But Elyn kicked him in his leering face with the heel of her boot, smashing him back and down; and his leg became entangled in the chariot wheel, and he was jerked down and under, the wheel bashing over him, the chariot jolting upward; and as he tumbled in the road, the chariot hammered onward, leaving him behind.
Blang! Still Thork fended thrown spears with his shield, and in his right hand he now held the Kammerling, ready to smash any who tried to leap from Hèlsteed to chariot, for they galloped nigh. But one of the leering, yawling corpse-foe raced to the fore, tulwar in hand, its edge coated with a black sticky substance, preparing to slash it down upon the neck of a plunging chariot Hèlsteed. And there was nought that either Elyn or Thork could do to stay his hand, and down chopped the saber. Yet in that very same moment they passed by a side notch in the mountains, breaking out from the shadow of the range and into the first light of day, the Sun’s orange rim just now thrusting above the lip of the world, shining through the narrow gap between the land below and the cloud cover above.
And the Guula looked up in startlement.
And the chariot Hèlsteeds collapsed, falling to the ground, the hurtling waggon tongues digging in, the careening rig vaulting wheels o’er rails, catapulting Elyn and Thork and packs and weapons outward to arc through the air and smash into the earth, Elyn and Thork tucking and rolling as they struck the hard ground, pain shocking through them as they jolted ’gainst cold dirt and stone and snow and ice. Yet in an instant they were both on their feet, ready for combat, expecting attack from their foes, though neither had a weapon at hand.
But only silence greeted them, though a wheel of the upside-down chariot spun and squeaked upon its axle in the susurration of the wind. And of the Guula and Hèlsteeds, only ashes remained, the breeze stirring through empty clothing and weaponry, through leather harness and tack, for Adon’s Ban had struck them down, the sunlight destroying them all.
And scattered across the ’scape lay the weapons and backpacks of the two, and an old rusted forge hammer with a cracked helve and a broken peen.
And they were free!
“You were magnificent!” cried Elyn, jubilant, throwing her arms about Thork and kissing him on the mouth . . . yet that kiss suddenly flared into more than either expected: Elyn’s heart leaping, a wondrous fire exploding in the pit of her stomach and racing through her breasts, through her loins, through her entire being; and Thork’s blood flaming, his pulse hammering in his ears, in his groin, his chest tight with a burning hunger.
Yet just as suddenly they sprang apart, hearts pounding, confused and embarrassed, the strictures of their Kind reaching down through the ages, down through time to bind them:She is Woman, not Châkian!
He is Dwarf, not Human!
How can this be?
How can this be?
And in that moment the earth beneath their feet began to tremble, to shake.
“Wha—” Elyn began.
“Earthquake!” cried Thork. “Here, to the wall, Elyn! Rocks above will fall, mayhap avalanche!”
And so they huddled against the sheltering wall of a bluff at the foot of the nearby mountain, their arms about one another; and the ground heaved and thrummed, and boulders and rocks and stones crashed down from above, plunging down the slopes and bounding across the road.
And with awe in her voice Elyn cried “Look!” and pointed southerly.
In the distance they could see the black crag of Andrak’s fortress shuddering, bright rays of dawn sunlight shining up high on the strongholt’s walls, the rest of the pinnacle still in mountain shadow. And even as they stared in wonderment, scarcely believing their eyes, slowly, majestically, but with ever-increasing speed, the dark spires toppled, fortress and stone locked together in a great falling arc, hurtling down through the air to thunderously smash against the earth, shattering with unimaginable force, huge boulders and immense slabs and tons of riven rock bursting upward and outward with the impact, hurling across the ’scape, great clouds of snow and ice and dirt whooshing up into the sky; moments later the jolt of the crash shocked through the ground beneath the feet of Elyn and Thork, and then a deafening WHOOM! hammered their ears.
And slowly the thrumming of the earth ceased.
The earthquake was over.
And Andrak’s fortress had been utterly destroyed.
And deep within the living stone far below, a rhythmic hammering sounded, knelling beneath the land.
CHAPTER 38
The Retreat
Mid and Late Summer, 3E1602
[This Year]
A month or more did Black Kalgalath ret
urn each dawn to Kachar, as Châkka watched from the hidden vale-gate, from safety. The Drake rent soil and mutilated corpses and hurled brazen challenges from nearby mountain peaks. And during those same weeks, nought else but vultures and gorcrows did the Dwarves see venture into the vale—except one afternoon a copper-haired Human maiden rode within, and then back out . . . yet the Châkka attributed no significance to it. And in that month or more, the Châkka drove small tunnels through the Mountain stone aflank the great gate, driving all but the last few feet, following Masterdelver Fendor Stonelegs’ plan, tunnels to act as side posterns to be used to get access to the great pile of rubble covering the main portal to clear it away, once the Drake stopped coming. And at last the Dragon gave up his morning forays, for there was no sport in ripping up soil and mutilating long-dead corpses, and neither the Dwarves nor the Men provided fresh victims. And so there came a day when Black Kalgalath did not appear, and then another day, and another; and when a week had passed and still he had not returned, the Châkka deemed that they could complete the work. And after another week or so they punched through the last few feet of granite to come out into the vale; and they set the small yet massy iron doors at each passage end, doors held shut by heavy iron bars; and they placed linchpins in the roofs of each corridor to collapse the tunnels should events in the future come to a dire pass and call for such desperate measures. And when these things were done, when the postern tunnels were finished, then were they ready to begin removing the talus—boulders and slabs and scree—covering the main gate.
And in those same weeks, duels were fought, though at a somewhat less frequent rate, for both the Dwarves and the Men had been apprised of the consequences of total warfare within these cloistered halls. And most of the Men came to focus their hatred upon Captain Bolk, whom they deemed their Dwarven jailor, for he and his warding Châkka represented all that they despised: the confinement, the lack of grassy plains and fresh air and open skies, the ache they felt in their chests whenever they thought of hearth and home, the death of comrades. Too, the Harlingar could not escape the feeling that they were in the pits of Hèl, for they recalled the fables that spoke of heroes lost forever in the grim underworld, a dreadful place entered through caves and holes and crevices in the earth, a woeful place of no return; and this, too, drew down their spirits, dragging them toward despair. And even though King Aranor and Armsmaster Ruric and Reachmarshal Vaeran and Marshal Boer often walked among the Men and spoke with them to lift their hearts, still the frustration rode the souls of all, and more duels were fought, more Men and Dwarves died, and the Dragontruce between them became even more hostile.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 43
