by D Mickleson
“There!” cried Triston. “Of course!”
He had lifted his eyes from the pool to the waterfall above. Mist-shrouded during the day, it now fell like delicate sheets of gossamer, a silken veil adorning the now visible stone behind it.
There was an opening. For one brief moment, it stood out plainly, a crack in the rock wall a foot above the surface of the pool, just large enough for a thin man to crawl through. Deep darkness lay beyond. Even as Triston gaped in awe, a shadow seemed to creep out of the crack and envelope the falls in impenetrable gloom. Night had fallen, and the opening was gone.
“Ald, I’ve seen it, the way in!”
Alden had grudgingly come up beside him again.
“What are you talking about?”
“The door! You can see it at dusk. Shut both night and day, but I just saw it.”
As he spoke the words, he wondered if the opening was magic. Did it really shut itself, or was it open all the time, only visible at twilight? There was only one way to find out.
He dove in headfirst. The water was even colder than before, its icy touch like thousands of needles pricking his skin. His heart seemed to skip several beats.
Ignoring the sensation that a giant was gripping his chest and slowly squeezing the life out of him, he opened his eyes and looked around. Nothing was visible in the black water, but he could hear the roar of the falls on the far side of the pool.
Forcing his arms and legs to move, he beat his way forward and down until the bubbles swirled around him. He pushed on, diving deep, deeper than before, right under the thunderous force above him. His ears felt ready to burst when finally his groping hands reached what they sought, a wall of rock, the far end of the pool. Kicking for dear life, relief coursing through him when his feet found hard stone to propel from, he shot upwards like an empty barrel.
And smashed hard into the downward force of the falls.
His flailing arms could feel air above him, but the current was too strong. He was sinking, driven back down to the depths. The cold was now like slashing razors. Then his right hand curled around something smooth and round in the rock wall. He seized it at once, and found he could hold himself against the raging force above.
Both hands gripped the stone handhold, his injured left arm too numb to protest, and Triston was reminded of a ladder rung. Someone, somehow, had carved a rung right into the sheer wall. But that could only mean . . . yes! He felt it, another one above the first. He pulled himself up to the next rung, and felt his strength draining. He might manage one, maybe two more rungs before it was all over.
His right hand shook violently—was it from the cold or thrill of discovery?—but gripped the third rung nonetheless and pulled. His left hand joined the effort, and suddenly his head broke the surface. He sucked greedily at the misty air.
The fall was behind him now. The space between the wall and the cascading water was just inches wide, but it was enough. Desperate to get out of the freezing pool, Triston reached up and felt for the gaping fissure. It was there. With his last remaining strength, he clasped the jagged lip with both hands and pulled himself through into the darkness beyond.
Night enveloped him. He crawled a few feet into the cave and collapsed to the ground, shivering, and marveling at his own foolishness. Why hadn’t he just waited until morning, by which time the flooding falls would have grown less? What madness had taken him that he would challenge the wrath of the raging stream by night? He had no answer, except . . . his heart raced with the thrill of being here. He’d made it here, wherever here was.
As he lay in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, he was surprised to find that the chill was already wearing off. The cave was hot. Heat emanated from the stone all around him, and a warm breeze blew now and then from further in. The sweltering air was pleasant, cold and wet as he was.
Minutes passed, but no passage of time seemed to make any difference to the pitch black that surrounded him. The darkness was unpiercable. His ears straining for the sound of stealthy movement, though he knew his hearing was as blind as his sight this close to the booming falls, he lifted his head and looked around. The faintest patch of silver hovered just beyond his feet where the entrance must be. All else was impenetrable shadow.
He was surprised when his groping hands found no roof overhead. This cave was more spacious than the cat-crawl of an opening had promised.
Standing proved difficult. With his back to the falls and nothing ahead to focus on, his head swam and balance failed him. He fell to all fours painfully, then began to crawl forward into the gloom.
As he shuffled along, he wondered about Alden. Would he follow? Should he wait for him? He doubted it. That Alden had courage could not be denied, and anyone who said otherwise to his face might never speak again. But Alden’s bravery was for battle under the open sky. Triston knew him well. He detested confined spaces. He would never climb through that entrance hole. And now that Triston thought of it, Alden hadn’t seen the hidden way in. For all Alden knew, Triston was dead at the bottom of the pool.
Ah well, Triston thought, I’ll just give him a pleasant surprise when I come out—or maybe not so pleasant. Maybe he’ll think I’m a ghost if it’s dark enough. He laughed out loud, and the sound echoed ahead many times, growing ever fainter before dying far away. Triston imagined that the later echoes hadn’t sounded exactly like his own.
How big was this place? Was he alone in here? He paused to listen, but only the fading rumor of rushing water behind him met his straining ears.
He pressed on. And on. And on. How far back did this cave go? He seemed to be in some sort of tunnel. The minutes dragged into hours, maybe. In the unbroken shadow such notions began to lose their meaning. Time is a measure of change, and here nothing changed. All was an endless, stony night.
No, one thing was changing. The heat was growing. Beads of sweat began to drip into his eyes. He closed them. They were useless here anyway.
When at last his knees began to hurt, Triston tried walking again. He found he could walk, as long as he kept a guiding hand on one of the walls, though crawling had been less painful. Feeling along with his right hand, he usually could avoid smacking his face or chest into the many long, jagged stones jutting out from the wall. Usually. But the collisions were worth it: as long as he had a hand on a wall, Triston told himself, he could be sure of his way back.
The comforting thought no sooner entered his mind than the wall disappeared. Groping, he traced its rough edge around and back on itself. The wall seemed to be no more than a foot thick, leading away on its other side in the direction he’d come. He turned and stumbled forward, wildly waving his arms, hoping the breech was no more than a small gap. But after several steps his hands met nothing but empty night.
Cursing, Triston halted. He was facing the decision he’d feared all along, to press on into nothingness or to feel his way back. But was there really anything to think about? Could he go back now, defeated by the darkness? Somehow he’d come to pin all his hopes on his father’s map, on this place. It mustn’t come to nothing.
Sweat poured down his face and dripped from his hands. Without water he wouldn’t last long in this stone oven. All the better, he thought grimly. Then dying will only take hours, not days, because I’m not giving up. I’m going on.
He took one uneasy step into the void. Then another. The ground beneath his bare feet was smooth now, as if the floor was lined with the chiseled flagstones of a castle. So why walk? Why not run? What difference did it make in this eternal night? Perhaps he was losing his mind. Perhaps he was already dead.
Triston ran. The void seemed endless. He fell, somehow tripping on the smooth stone, but jumped up and ran on. He ran until his breath gave way and his sides ached. Finally he stopped, resting his hands on his knees and letting the invisible sweat slop to the thirsty stone. The void was endless. There was nothing here, and he couldn’t go back. He would never find the cave entrance now.
The cave entrance. The
silver patch of light. It had been the last light he would ever see. He saw it now, hovering in his mind’s eye away in the distance, like a mirage of hope, like the glimmer of dawn to chase away a child’s nightmare. He shook his head to clear away the memory of light.
But the light remained.
The silvery patch still hovered, different than he remembered, oddly shaped. Triston frowned his sweat-soaked brow. He realized then that his eyes were open, he could feel each stinging drip, but somehow the light refused to disappear.
He staggered forward, his eyes locked on the moon-like glow ahead, expecting with each step that this shining hallucination would be shuttered. But the light only grew.
Slowly at first and far off it grew, and then, as his pace quickened to match his heart, the brilliance swiftly intensified. Soon the light filled his whole mind, stinging his gaping pupils more than the sweat.
Triston ran, and laughed as he ran, until wonder took him, bringing awed silence, for he knew now what he saw.
He ran on. He was deep inside the hill now, perhaps directly beneath the village high above. When the light at last towered over him and the soft thud of rock underfoot gave way to a metallic clink, he halted. Reverence, more than anything, brought him to a standstill, though he dearly desired to reach out and touch the light.
The brilliance came not from one solid source, as he had supposed while still far off. Instead, it emanated from many huge, interlocking structures which flowed together into a colossal form. A monstrous form, more majestic and terrible even in death than anything Triston had seen or imagined.
Magog.
The luminous skeleton stretched in a great curve. It bent from the dragon’s barb-tipped, coiling tail past crouching hind legs, ready to spring, over a rib-cage large enough to hold Triston’s childhood cottage, to—Triston shuddered. At its far end, a severed spine lay like the sideways trunk of a felled cedar, a memory of grandeur now humbled. The creature’s head was nowhere to be seen.
But his presence was everywhere. As Triston stared up at the dragon’s remains, he felt it. More than bones lay heavy on this place. Magog was here.
Strangely, the presence was not hostile, of that Triston felt sure. But neither was it friendly. Rather, a weariness was here, a profound longing for rest that would never come. And regret. Triston knew this spirit, how he had no idea. But he felt as one visited in the waking world by a recurring dream, or perhaps by an old friend from long ago.
He paced slowly around the dragon, as close as he dared, sometimes nearly within reaching distance. His footfalls clinked and jingled beneath him. The dragon’s hoard was vast beyond imagination, a bed of piled wealth so great that no part of the monumental skeleton touched bare stone.
Triston stopped to consider the treasure beneath his feet, bullion of gold and silver, endless piles of coins, bejeweled bracelets and knifehilts, gold-plated shields, spears and breastplates. Magog boasted enough golden bowls, cups and plates to feast all of Luskoll.
As he looked, he realized two things. First, that though the dragon’s radiance fell richly on himself so that his eyes were dazzled, and on the gray floor farther off, the golden hoard shone only dimly in a reluctant half-light. Second, he realized this did not surprise him. That Magog was richer than the emperor could not be denied. But his hoard was only a deathbed to him now, a coffin, a reviled heap on which he would waste no luster. How he knew it he couldn’t say. But he was sure. Magog’s love for treasure had died with his earthly body.
Triston’s heart rate quickened. If Magog no longer coveted his hoard, didn’t that mean he could take as much as he wished? Had he not come here for just such a purpose, to gain a treasure that might lead to a happy life? He had a vision of himself stuffing his clothes with gold—how much could he carry out?—enough to live on for years in one trip. And it would take years to take it all.
Perhaps, but not yet.
The treasure was tempting, but first he needed answers to many questions. If his father had been here, why had he and Meria lived in poverty before he died? Had his father taken nothing? And what about the riddle? Snatches came back to him now, and he wondered. My bones lie next to his who took my life . . . . No legend ever told of Willbrand after the dragon-slaying. Would Triston find the pitiful skeleton of a man lying crumpled and forgotten beside Magog’s glorious bones?
And what about the legendary Relic? Where in this strange world of darkness and light did that precious thing lie? If it’s still here . . . .
These questions shouted for answers as he trod the golden path. His awe slowly faded into thoughtfulness while his eyes swept the dragon’s orb of light, looking for anything to satisfy his curiosity. Two careful passes later, no answers had come, only an endless circle of shining bones on a bed of treasure.
“I’ll have to find your skull,” he told the dragon, and he knew that Magog heard him. “But that means venturing out into the darkness. Would you spare me a small piece of yourself? Just enough to light my way? It seems a shame to pick at your bones, but I need the light.”
Magog remained silent, and Triston took this as assent.
He was standing near the spiked tail. Having made up his mind, he boldly approached and began searching for the smallest spike. Many were already lost—scars of ancient battles?—but Triston found one small enough to break off by hand. He gripped and snapped, and the brittle bone broke easily. Stepping back, he marveled at the shining barb, its light blood-red through his squeezing fingers.
Then Magog sighed.
His hot breath hit Triston’s face like a slap, and a sound rumbled up from far under the earth. It was a dry, creaking noise so low as to be nearly beyond the range of human hearing. Triston faced the direction of the windy breath, away beyond the severed spine. “I’m sorry, dragon,” he said. “But I told you, I don’t have a choice.” He strode off past the death mound into the darkness beyond, the spike in his hand radiant and hot as if he held a minute star.
The stone chamber narrowed once more, and Triston found himself jogging at an easy pace around a gentle curve. Soon Magog and his hoard slipped out of sight and the narrowing increased. Triston delighted in the gleaming spike, holding it aloft as all other light died away. The ever-nearer walls glowed with the blood-red of his shining hand.
Soon the walls pressed in. He began to fear the way forward would disappear entirely. The bending of the path sharpened. He turned a corner and found himself face to face with Magog.
The skull shone like a white coal, its fiery glare overpowering the spike and rendering it useless. Triston lowered his hand. Just feet away, the dragon’s carriage-sized snout seemed to smoke with breath. The jaws were closed fast, but their sword-length teeth were no less fearsome for that. Above the jaws he saw—they stole his breath away—those eyes! They seemed to bore into his, piercing his soul, measuring his worth with scales of ancient wisdom that no eighteen-year-old could fathom. He stared back into their depths, frozen like a bird before snake, wondering what the dragon saw in him. More importantly, what would the dragon do with him?
Magog was more angry here, yes, and more vigilant, and no less weary. With a sudden relief, Triston knew the anger was not directed at him. Not yet anyway. Something—someone nearby bore that burden.
With an effort of will, he tore his gaze from the dragon’s sockets and saw that the way ahead was blocked. The tunnel walls narrowed and met behind the skull. There was no way forward, unless . . . then he noticed the bones. Human bones. In the angry light they glowed ominously at his feet. Many, many bones. Was this Willbrand? No skulls leered up at him, but he thought he counted six femurs. At least six. More than one man had died here.
Suddenly Magog’s breath struck him again, searingly hot, and dust swirled around his feet. Then low, echoing words rumbled up from deep within the earth.
“Speak, human.”
Speak? Speak what?
The answer came to him at once. He’d seen it from the first, when he and Alden had just escaped L
uskoll and he read the riddle on his father’s sheepskin for the first time. The final words echoed in his mind even as the dragon’s rumbling died away.
Just name the deadly sin we both concede awakened dragon’s fire and slayer’s deed.
But what would happen if he answered wrongly? He glanced down at the bones again and shuddered. Then, swallowing with difficulty, he spoke.
“Greed.”
With terrifying speed, Magog’s jaws snapped open, the skull rising as if to swallow Triston whole. Then, just as suddenly, all was still and silent. The dragon’s mouth stood open, the fanged maw gaping before him like the burning entrance to hell, inviting him to tempt fate and enter.
Again he thought of turning back, making it out alive. But the idea had no hold over him. He had to know what was inside. Surely Trinian had come here and lived. Triston would walk in his father’s footsteps.
Trembling, he eased himself carefully over a gap in the razor teeth and stood in the mouth of the dragon. Magog’s glow was brighter here. Every curve and contour of his mouth stood out in vivid magnificence. Sparing no time for wonder, Triston passed from the snout to the inner cranium with a few hurried steps. He stopped abruptly and stared at a point just beyond his feet. A deep gash ran straight down to the stone beneath. Its edges were smooth and fine, a seemingly insignificant and meaningless flaw in this larger-than-life skull.
But Triston knew better. He imagined the Sword of Willbrand, Bloodprice, driving through Magog’s cranium a thousand years ago. With a mighty blow Willbrand had destroyed the wyrm’s fiery thoughts and ended the dragon’s reign of terror over these lands. The dragonslayer must have severed the head for good measure afterward, but this, right here, was the fatal blow.
On the far side of Magog’s skull, a jagged rent stood out where the spine should enter the brain, an ugly blotch in this beautiful chamber. Willbrand had hacked away at the neck with obvious disdain for his fallen foe. Stepping forward and peering through, Triston saw a dark space beyond. Lowering himself down, he raised the shining spike and peering around.
