by C S Marks
“Ishtar draws farther ahead of us, Hallagond,” said Visili, shaking his head. “And he is moving toward the hills. I wonder if he knows we’re following him, and thinks it likely that we’ll lose the trail in the stony hills. Ishtar is very clever, and he may yet elude us.”
Estle sighed. “And while we waste time and energy in this pursuit, our friends are no doubt engaged in pitched battle, one in which we are desperately needed. Just let the wretched man go. What harm will come of it?”
Hallagond did not reply, for he was weary of explaining his actions. He knelt beside Visili, examining the signs left by Ishtar’s dromadan. “You’re right,” he said grimly. “He has gained ground since yesterday.”
“Do you truly believe he’ll survive, traveling alone through these hard lands?” asked Estle, who obviously didn’t think this likely. Again, Hallagond did not respond to her question, but made ready to continue following Ishtar’s trail.
Visili moved to stand beside Estle, and spoke with her aside. “He believes that, if there is any chance of gaining the company of other men, Ishtar will not only survive but will bring new enemies to threaten the Citadel. For that reason, he must be stopped. Hallagond must undo what he has done, for he will not have peace until then. You, of all people, should know this.”
Estle knew Visili meant to be kind, but she was still angry and frustrated with Hallagond, and did not want to admit that Visili was right. She grew more restive with each passing hour, for she knew the City needed as many able hands as could be mustered. Impatience was a trait she occasionally shared with an Elf named Gaelen.
She growled under her breath. “He thinks he can undo what was done simply by tracking down Ishtar? Ali will most likely lock us all away when we return…provided there’s a City left to lock us up in. We should go back at once, and aid them as we may. They may delay our punishment until the war is ended, at least. What must they think of us? I can just imagine what the Elves are saying right now.”
Her voice took on a sort of patronizing simper that was most unflattering. “Oh, isn’t it just like weakling men to run off when they are most needed…but we shouldn’t be surprised, after all, they are not so noble as we are.” She shook her head in disgust. “May their hair be infested with fleas.”
Estle envied the Elves their beautiful, flowing hair that never seemed to become untidy; even Gaelen’s windblown mop fell more-or-less into place with a shake of her head. Estle’s own hair was curly, and in the sea air it had puffed out around her head like a wooly corona. It tangled terribly in the wind, and she had tried various ways to tame it, to no avail. Hence she was rarely seen without a bright silk scarf tied around her head, which made her look rather roguish, as Corsairs often wore such headgear. Hallagond found this alluring, but Estle would have preferred the flowing, care-free tresses of the Elves. We always want what we do not possess.
Her disgruntled thoughts were interrupted by Hallagond. “I am moving on now, Estle,” he said. “You know that I can’t allow Ishtar to escape. Will you join me, or no? If you would return to the City take one of the dromadin with you, but please leave most of the provisions. I shall have need of them. Take Visili with you if you wish; I can handle Ishtar alone.”
“Do you even care whether I leave you?” she asked, her face reddening. “I came along so that I could aid you, and I would still aid you—the only way I will turn back is if you do. I admit that I’m concerned, because this pursuit is taking us farther and farther from matters at hand, and still you will not listen.”
To her surprise, he reached for her right hand and took it gently. “Estle, I would rather cut off my own right arm than have you leave me, but I don’t rule your actions and never have done so. Come with me, or return as you will, but know that I care for you in either case. I fear we may not see each other again if you leave, and I would declare my heart first. You want me to say that I love you? All right—I do. So choose now, and know that I will hold no ill will toward you. I must see this wrong made right. I am responsible for setting loose a potential threat to the City, and I alone must rectify it.”
He stood before her, disheveled but proud, a warrior both of the Ravani and of the North, so winsome in that moment that Estle knew she could never leave him. He was a fine man, and her heart had been given.
“Well, perhaps not quite as romantic as I might have wished, but it will do,” she said.
Visili smiled and shook his head. Their intrepid band of hunting hounds would remain, and perhaps now Estle would cease her nearly incessant grumbling and growling, a possibility that would not dismay either of her companions.
Deep beneath the City, Fima and the scholars worked their way through the vast stores of written lore, trying to find anything that could aid the defenders in defeating Lokai. Gaelen and Nelwyn made their way in, as the entrance had been unblocked earlier and the chamber would not be re-sealed unless the Wall was breached. Fima was happy to see his two beloved friends, and was relieved to learn that none in the Company had yet fallen. “So, you survived the first onslaught, I see! Well done,” he said. “But now we have a task before us, and we need your aid.” He called out to an aged man sitting at a table with a great volume opened before him.
“These Elves have seen the dragon. Ask your questions of them.”
“Excellent,” said the man, turning back to a marked page. “This volume features a series of identifying characteristics of various beasts, arranged in a very orderly way. We can follow the clues like pieces of a puzzle.” He looked up at Gaelen and Nelwyn. “Now, then…which of these applies to our beast? Scales diamond-shaped and keeled, go to 6. Scales not as above, go to 9. Well? Which is it?”
Gaelen and Nelwyn looked at each other. “What, exactly, does that mean?” asked Nelwyn.
Gaelen snorted. “It means this man doesn’t realize that we managed to view the dragon from a very great distance. The only reason we got even a decent look was that it stood upright for a moment. It’s of no use asking about the shape of its scales.”
“Fine. Perhaps you could not take notice of the shape of the scales, but surely you could tell if they were keeled,” said the scholar with a frown. “Did the creature have a roughened appearance, or was it smooth and shiny like glass?”
“It was rough-textured, and the color of lead,” said Nelwyn helpfully.
“Ah. Well, that is of some help. All right…now, how did it stand upright? Is it winged?”
“All dragons are winged,” said Fima. “Move along.”
“Fair enough,” said the scholar. “Let’s see now…ah. Here is the next couplet…tongue bluish, forked, and less than thrice the length of a man, go to 12. Tongue red or pinkish and greater than thrice the length of a man, go to 20.” He looked up at the Elves as though he actually expected them to know this.
“We have no time for such ridiculous nonsense,” said Gaelen. “We have wasted enough of it already. Fima…is there a book here with pictures? Perhaps we will know the creature if we see a depiction of it.”
“Here is such a volume,” said an eager voice from another table. They turned to view a small, thin-faced, nervous little man wearing olive-green robes.
There was indeed a book with pictures of various dragons, cold-drakes, and fire-drakes. The little man delighted in turning the pages for the Elves to see, as he was the only one specially gloved to handle them.
Regrettably, the Elves soon concluded that none of the beasts in the book really looked like the one they had seen. Nelwyn shook her head. “It’s probably unique to these southern lands, and this book is one of the original ones brought from the north,” she said. “It’s no wonder we do not see that beast here.”
“If we do not find a way to kill it, we are lost!” said Gaelen, whose patience had worn thin long ago.
“Kill it, you say?” said the little man looking up from his manuscript. “There is a way in which all drakes are vulnerable, and may be killed, regardless of type.”
“There is?”
said Gaelen. “What is it, and why, in the name of heaven, did you not reveal it earlier?”
“I was told to find out what sort of dragon it is, not how to kill it. There is a spot in the roof of the mouth where a well-placed arrow or spear can penetrate. It is thought that the beast uses this area to tell the nature of what it scents upon the air with its tongue. It’s a soft spot that goes straight into the creature’s brain, but it takes a mighty dart to penetrate all the way through, so said missile must be thrown from very close range.” He leafed through the book until he found a drawing of the roof of a dragon’s mouth, showing the place quite clearly. “See? Here is an excellent depiction of it.” To his horror, Gaelen reached out and tore the page away.
Fima winced and groaned as a collective gasp went up from the scholars. The sound of ripping parchment was not one that they were accustomed to hearing within those walls.
Gaelen regretted her action, but she knew it was necessary. “We shall need this. I’m sorry…I will return it if we survive the battle. If not, there will be nothing to return it to.” She bowed before the outraged scholars, and she and Nelwyn bade farewell to Fima before returning to the task at hand.
Fima turned to his companions. “Don’t just stand there with your mouths open…let’s get these works back in order and pray we don’t lose the entire collection to the enemy.”
The scholars spent a few more moments in stunned silence. Then they called for the chamber to be re-sealed immediately, lest any more pages be torn from their precious, irreplaceable manuscripts.
Gaelen took the parchment up to the battlements, showing the spot to the archers stationed there. If the gates fell they would move to stand atop the wall, and might be in a position to send forth a shaft into Lokai’s great mouth.
“A killing shot will need to be made at very close range. It’s no good otherwise,” said Nelwyn. “Yet the beast is large enough that we may well be presented with the opportunity.”
Lokai was nearly a hundred feet long from head to tail, and though not normally inclined to raise his belly from the ground he could do so by using his wings. His hind legs were powerful enough to move forward with great force, but they were not designed for an upright stance. Any clear shot given to the archers would be a brief one.
“Those of us who fight from the ground will also try to strike this spot,” said Gaelen, “but the enemy warriors will distract us, and it will be very difficult to draw near enough to the beast without being trampled…or worse. The dragon’s efforts will be directed at bringing down the wall, so you will face it most directly. Remember this drawing, and remember it well!” So saying, she passed the parchment down the line once more before retrieving it, for she would also share it with the waiting horsemen below.
The Scourge’s army had drawn at last within sight of the City, and the news the Commanders were given was not as expected. They had thought to be reunited with their cavalry, who had ridden ahead to visit whatever damage they could upon the unprepared Citadel. Instead of a thousand confident riders they found but fifty who could still stand, and they were full of tales of the unexpected resistance they had encountered.
“Bring the traitor,” growled the Commanders. “We should thank him properly.”
They caught him trying to escape toward the City, hoping to be admitted. He knew the people would know him, and would not leave him to die. Nor would they kill him outright in any case. They might throw him into prison for life, but that would be a far better fate than the Scourge would unleash on him. Unfortunately, the Scourge’s scouts caught him and bound him with cords, taking him before the Commanders.
“It would seem your information has proven unreliable,” said one. “As a result we have now lost nearly a thousand of our mounted warriors. What have you to say?”
The traitor cringed. “They must have been warned a long time ago, somehow. My information would have been entirely reliable otherwise. Someone else has warned them of your approach. You cannot blame me for it.”
“All right, then,” said the Commander. “We don’t blame you.” He turned to his lieutenant. “Take him to Lokai that the beast’s appetite may be awakened,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Spare him no pain.”
Hallagond had some trouble tracking Ishtar in the dust and stony ground of the Brown Hills, and he despaired, for if he truly lost the trail there would be no regaining it. The winds were rising, making everything more difficult, and he was losing hope.
“What’s that in the distance?” asked Estle, pointing toward the northeast. “Vultures?”
“I can’t tell if they are vultures or ravens,” said Hallagond. He squinted into the morning sunlight. “Bad luck we don’t have the Elves here—I have missed Nelwyn’s keen sight and Gaelen’s sharp nose.”
“Do you see any harm in heading there?” asked Estle, for she too was becoming frustrated trying to keep to Ishtar’s trail. “Vultures or ravens are drawn only to dead things; perhaps Ishtar has killed again. We truly don’t have a trail that we are certain of, and we are moving so slowly now that we’re unlikely to have one again. I believe the vultures are a sign that will draw us to the trail.”
“And if not, we’ll lose Ishtar for good,” said Visili.
“We have lost him already, I fear,” muttered Hallagond. “Very well then, let’s see what the birds are so excited about.”
They drew cautiously within sight of the group of vultures—huge ugly black things with wrinkled, naked heads and necks and tiny, malevolent yellow-green eyes. Hallagond spent one of his arrows, bringing down one of them, whereupon the remainder lifted ponderously into the air. Inherently patient creatures, they would not risk themselves. As Hallagond, Estle, and Visili drew nearer, they beheld a disturbing sight. Their search for Ishtar had ended.
The fresh remains of a dromadan and a dead man lay before them; the vultures had been at both, but not for long. The dromadan had been torn apart and partially devoured by something large and fierce; no vultures could have done such damage. Ishtar had been carved with a blade; there were signs of struggle throughout the area.
Hallagond tried to piece together what had happened. Apparently something had come on them, probably by night, and had leaped upon the hapless dromadan, twisting its slender neck with such force that it broke. Then it had pulled Ishtar down after a fierce fight. There was some blood in evidence, but the windblown dust had covered much of it.
Estle could not imagine a creature capable of tearing a healthy dromadan to pieces. “Whatever it was, it had sharp teeth,” remarked Visili, shaking his head. “And, in order to twist the dromadan’s neck like this, it must have had hands. That’s what really worries me.”
“One thing is certain,” said Hallagond, we don’t want to encounter it ourselves. I no longer need worry about Ishtar. We must make our way back with all speed, and we must be careful not to lose our way. With luck we will arrive home in time to aid our friends, if any remain.”
“The Scourge has not yet fully engaged the City,” said Estle. “We would see the smoke from the oil-fires. Let’s make haste!
They turned about, Visili lingering for a moment to say a prayer for the soul of Ishtar, who would have need of it.
“Here they come; they’re on the move at last,” said Galador, training his sharp eyes to the east. The Scourge had waited for over an hour before finally advancing. “I still cannot see the dragon.” He turned to Nelwyn, who stood beside him. “You are certain this was not a flight of imagination? There were no honey-jars among your provisions, were there?”
“One could wish for that to be true,” said Nelwyn grimly, “but he would wish in vain.”
Her eyes widened, and she pointed to the horizon. “There! You see that great plume of steam? The Worm is moving closer, and it is aroused. We will lay eyes on it soon enough.” She turned to Galador. “I shall have need of your powerful bow here on the battlements, and I’m relieved you will stand with me, for I fear the task of slaying the creature will be ours to
bear.”
She shivered, and Galador placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Calm yourself, beloved,” he said gently. “All will be well.”
Nelwyn turned determined eyes to him. “You think I tremble with fear? How wrong you are. Is this what the lust for battle feels like? I cannot wait to engage my foe and slay him. I would see every one of these evil warriors cast into darkness, and their fearsome drake with them!”
Galador was surprised to hear such words from Nelwyn, spoken with such fervor. “Well…try to hold onto your battle-lust, so long as it doesn’t muddle your thinking or spoil your aim,” he said, “but save most of it for the enemy. It will tire you if you cannot be calm until the battle is joined.”
“Don’t worry…it won’t spoil my aim,” said Nelwyn, her green eyes flashing. “At last I understand what Gaelen has been talking about.” She smiled at Galador, whose expression told that he was a little fearful of this change in her.
“Don’t be dismayed, Galador, you still have your beloved Nelwyn beside you. Yet my blood is up now, and my arrows will fly fast and true once the enemy arrives.”
“Just be cautious,” said Galador gently. “You Wood-elves seem to lose all restraint when your blood is up. Remember to wait until Ali gives the word.”
Nelwyn frowned at him as though she resented the very suggestion that she would act rashly, and he smiled back at her.
Down in the courtyard, Gaelen prepared Finan to ride forth again. She wrapped a strip of thin, elastic deerskin carefully around each of his lower forelegs. These would support the old injuries, allowing Finan to remain longer in the fray without pain. When she had finished, she coated the entire assembly with melted beeswax mixed with a flexible resin; the wraps would need to be removed with a blade.
