“Lantern,” hissed Elgo, kneeling to look. “Get me a lantern.”
No sooner it seemed were the words out of the Prince’s mouth than Reynor was back, a lit lantern in his hands. Moving the light side to side over the track, Elgo’s excitement grew. He stepped down its length some distance, Reynor in his wake, the lantern casting swaying shadows into the dark surround. “This will lead exactly where we wish to go,” hissed Elgo, “right to the lair of the beast.”
Swiftly they returned to the Warband, now bearing the long rolls of sailcloth unto the gateway, hauling great lengths of rope as well. Other lanterns were lit, and the portal examined. Just as expected, to either side on left and right, ladders mounted up into the shadows, rungs leading up to the o’erhead walkways behind arrow slits carved in the stone above the gate.
Up these ways swarmed Vanadurin, bearing lanterns and ropes and block and tackle brought here for the work ahead, while below others rolled out canvas and fitted their palms with leather pads. Laying the cloth upon the stone floor in overlapping panels, awls were put into play; holes were punched and great curved needles drew rawhide thongs through the fabric, stitching the square panes together; and as the stitching went forward, dollops of pitch were dropped in to fill the laced holes behind. Swiftly they worked and quietly, while the day outside grew brighter, the Sun striding up the sky.
To one side a group of ten poured water into buckets of powdered soil, borne all the way from Jord, kneading the mix into a thick clay. In many ways, theirs was the most critical of tasks.
Still others fitted together a long heavy pole made of sections of ashwood lance shafts, each end slipped into a tight iron collar, a tube forged for just this need, and butted midway against another haft, to be held in place by a steel pin driven through drilled holes. Shaft, collar, shaft, collar. . the work went on, pins driven in, assembling the needed long pole, just as it had been assembled many times at the castle in practice for this quest. And as it had been planned back at the keep, in turn the assembled long pole was laced along what would become the top edge of the canvas work, each stitch double-tied, the holes filled in after with a drop of pitch.
It was late forenoon when they lashed ropes upon the finished canvas, now haling the lines up and threading them through the pulleys affixed to the stonework above. And slowly they drew the great cloth into place, the light within the west chamber gradually dimming as the fabric raised up to cover the portal, shutting out the sunlight.
“Seal it,” commanded Elgo. And Vanadurin stepped to the buckets of clay, reaching in and pulling out great handfuls, forming long thick ropy strands by rolling it upon the stone floor. These in turn were borne to the canvas and placed along its edge behind and pressed into both wall and cloth, sealing the canvas border around the gateway, Men climbing the ladders as needed, and dangling below the lower walkway above to finish the task.
It was early afternoon when this work was done, and Elgo called for the lanterns to be shuttered. Now the west hall plunged into darkness. And after a long while, a murmur of excitement growing as all eyes adjusted to the pitch black, “Hai, well done,” called Elgo, “for I can see nought. Now we go adragon hunting.”
The lamps were relit and Men girded themselves with arms, though if it came to a pitched battle with the Cold-drake, their weaponry would not suffice.
Ten shed their armor, Elgo among them. They were the fleetest of foot, and would be the ones to seek out Sleeth. Each tied a quilted cloth mask upon his face, covering mouth and nose, the screens sewn with powdered limestone and charcoal in between the layers; wetted, it was thought that this would afford some protection against the poisonous vapors of Sleeth’s deadly breath, though none knew for certain. And ere Reynor lashed on his mask he gave the others a rakish grin, and they smiled in return. And each took up a leather skin filled with a phosphorescent liquid, a thick slushy mix of water and a lichen that glowed in the dark.
“Well, Armsmaster”-Elgo’s voice was muffled by the cloth over mouth and nose-“when we are gone, set the Men in place and extinguish your lanterns, and, aye, don your masks, for soon I deem we’ll bring a Dragon your way.”
“Remember, my proud Prince,” advised Ruric, his voice husky with emotion, “look not into his eyes, for ’tis said that Dragons ha’e the power to beguile.” Ruric then fell silent, not trusting his voice to speak further, for his heart was pounding: his Lord strode into a danger untold. This was a gambling beyond reckoning, yet the plan was sound. Even so, Ruric sensed disaster, but spoke of it not, merely nodding, giving his Prince a salute instead.
Now Elgo turned unto the thirty remaining behind. “Hál Vanadurin,” he cried, his voice loud and echoing down the cavern, for there was no longer a reason to remain quiet. “May the smiling face of Fortune gaze upon us all.”
Hál Vanadurin! came the shouted return, and Elgo and nine others caught up their lanterns and set off along the Dragon track, following the scale-polished stone down into the depths, heading for Sleeth’s lair.
Down into Blackstone they went, down along a wide smoothed trace palely shining in the lantern light. Behind them glowed a set of phosphorescent arrows pointing back the way they had come, arrows drawn with slashing strokes by Elgo and these Men. Down through a labyrinthine maze of Dwarven tunnels they went, passages and chambers splitting off in all directions. Stairs wound upward to left and right, pitching downward as well. Holes gaped to either side, leading where, none could say. Great chambers they trekked through, passing out the far end. They took little time to examine the rooms they trod within, for little time they had. Yet some chambers they could tell at a glance what their purposes were, others they could not. A great kitchen lay along their path, along the Dragon trail, but it had fallen into ruin, tables smashed by Sleeth slithering along his route. To one side they passed a smithy, forges cold, anvils silent, hammers not aringing. Too, there came an armory, weapons in cold array, chain and plate waiting to be clad. Other chambers they traversed, ore rooms, stoneworks, and the like. Yet what they saw was but a minuscule portion of the whole. It was like trekking through a few streets and buildings of a vast darkened city, abandoned long ago. And a great dolor seemed to fill the air.
Yet the Vanadurin had little time to ponder this deep sadness, for it was a Dragon they sought, and their blood ran high. A mile or more they had followed the twisting polished trail, marking their path with green-glowing arrows, down corridors, ’round corners, ’cross chambers, along curves. And they knew they drew closer to their goal, for the air was now heavy with the scent of Cold-drake, the stench of a great serpent lying thickly in the air, a reek intermingled with the acrid fumes of some dire spume.
And finally they came into another great chamber, and in the center they could see the reflected glitter of something shiny.
But ere they could tell what it was, RRRAAWWWW! came a great roar, like massy brass slabs dragged one upon the other, so loud that it broke eardrums and sent the Men reeling hindward. And exploding off his bed of gold came Sleeth, a hideous monster of mammoth proportions, rushing forward with a speed that stunned his foe; and from his mouth shot a dark liquid, splashing on stone and Man alike, charring flesh and burning rock. Screaming in pain, Men fell unto the smoldering stone, and Sleeth fell upon them in fury for daring to invade his lair, his great claws slashing them asunder, bloody shreds flying through the air.