Acid struck Elgo upon the face, and he reeled back, shrieking in unbearable agony, his left eye sizzling in the dire liquid. And he fell to his knees before the onrushing Dragon, oblivious to the danger in his desperate anguish, frantically clawing at the smoldering mask and ripping it from his face. Yet strong hands lifted him up; ’twas young Reynor, come to the aid of his Prince, raising him up and dragging him backward into the passage, shouting, “Run, my Lord, run! The Drake is upon us!”
Stumbling down the hall they ran, Reynor pulling the half-blind Prince after, following a spectral trail of green-glowing arrows. Behind them came the screams of Men falling into death; behind them came the brazen roars of a mighty Dragon; behind them came the clash of adamantine claws scrabbling upon stone.
Through blazing agony Elgo heard Reynor’s voice: “He follows, my Lord! He follows!”
Elgo’s own voice jerked out between gasps: “Run on, Reynor, run on! Make certain the bastard is slain!” And he stumbled to a halt.
Reynor stopped too, and hindward, great hard talons sounded upon black rock. “I cannot leave you to him, my Prince,” came Reynor’s panting reply, the young Man urgently pulling upon Elgo’s arm. “The only way Sleeth will be killed is if you run with me, for though I may be slain, if need be I’ll lead him a merry chase down another passage so that you may escape. But, my Lord, if we are successful with your plan, then it is the Drake that will fall. By Adon, ’tis true!”
Naming Adon seemed to galvanize the Prince; resolution filled his being. Grinding his teeth against the blinding pain, his eye a fiery hole in his seared face, Elgo called upon his uttermost grit and this time truly ran.
Along the glowing trail of ghostly arrows they fled, twisting through the Dwarven tunnels, the tortuous route all that saved them from the furious pursuit. Swifter than a horse was Sleeth, sprinting over a short course; but the mazed path within the Dwarvenholt defied this speed, his bulk acting against him through the myriad turns. Even so, the Drake gained upon his running quarry, drawing ever closer to the fleeing pair whenever lengthy chambers were encountered, his enraged roars shattering down the halls upon their heels.
Now he verged upon them; they were nearly within his grasp. He would rend them with his claws rather than destroy them with his breath, for he wanted the satisfaction of feeling life leaving their sundered bodies, of death coming unto their dismembered corpses.
Just before him they fled into the pitch-black west hall, the great Cold-drake rushing behind, their flesh and bones but barely beyond his grasp.
Yet Sleeth’s Dragon eyes saw through darkness as if it were brightest day. And as he exploded into the west chamber, he saw other Men before him, their faces also shielded by strange masking, holding ropes within the blackness. And there was a covering, a cloth covering, over the gateway. Sleeth cast forth his senses into the vale beyond to find that the Sun still rode the sky-
“Now!” cried Ruric. “By Adon send the monster to Hèl!”
Chnk! Up above on the overhead walkway an axe bit into a chopping block, sheering the supporting rope in twain. And down on the floor thirty Men hauled hard upon the lines, fifteen to either side, ripping the canvas away from the wall, the sealing clay unable to hold the cloth against the heaving pull.
And sunlight poured into the chamber, striking Sleeth in full, the great Drake unable to halt his forward rush and turn and flee into the surrounding dark ere the bright rays fell upon him.
With an agonized roar he crashed skidding unto the stone, dying even as he struck it. For Sleeth was a Cold-drake and suffered the Ban. And now these Harlingar had destroyed the mighty Dragon, tricking him into the daylight where he was whelmed by the hand of Adon.
And even as Elgo and Reynor fled before the crashed-down sliding monster, the twain blinded by the sudden dazzling radiance pouring in, Sleeth died, the burning fire deep within his glitterbright eyes quenched forever, the Drake’s last vision that of his killers: puny Men running in fear.
CHAPTER 15
Late Summer, Early Fall, 3E1602
[The Present]
All around them the Wolfwood stood darkly, and came a juddering howl from Hèl. On the knoll stood two wounded warriors, back to back for protection, waiting for one last battle.
“I am reminded,” growled the Dwarf, “that where Vulgs run, so might run the Grg.”
“Grg?” the Woman asked. “Do you mean the Wrg? Rutcha? Drōkha?”
‘Aye, Grg,” responded the Châk. “ Ghkh and Hrōk, alike. And mayhap more: Khōl, others. But by any name, yours or mine, still they may run with the Vulg.”
“Ah me, Thork,” said the Warrior Maid, her voice laden with fatigue, “would that we were rested, and shoulder and ribs mended, then would we give these Hèl-runners a fight.”
“Lady Elyn,” answered Thork, “let us give them a fight regardless.”
Bringing blade and warhammer to the guard, male and female stood in the night-remote stars wheeling o’erhead, quarter Moon riding silently up the sky-waiting for the foe.
“Ssst,” hissed Thork, “they come.”
Elyn looked, and trotting out from the woods came a great black shape. Wolf-like it was, yet no Wolf this; instead it was a Vulg, huge, standing nearly three feet at the shoulder. Baleful yellow eyes gleamed like hot coals when the Moon caught them just so. A slavering red tongue lolled over wicked fangs set in crushing jaws, drooling a virulent spittle. Vulg’s black bite slays at night: the ancient saying came unbidden to Elyn’s mind. Two more of the great beasts came sliding forth from the shadows, hideous power bunching and rippling under coarse black fur. Then came another dozen or so, slinking to and fro along the edge of the clearing, yellow gazes eyeing the quarry at bay.
Elyn’s heart was pounding, fear coursing throughout, driving away her fatigue. She stabbed her saber into the soil before her and wiped both palms upon her leathers, taking up the blade once more.
More Vulgs joined the pack, circling left and right, forming the arc of a quadrant along one edge of the glade. And Elyn and Thork suddenly shivered, for again they felt the gaze of evil upon them. And in that moment, the waiting was over, for as if they had received some arcane signal, the Vulgs exploded into motion, voicing bone-chilling howls, black doom racing toward the crown of the knoll, racing toward the woefully overmatched victims upon the crest.
“Ready, Warrior?” gritted Thork.
“Ready, Warrior,” answered Elyn.
And onward came hurtling the dire Vulgs, yellow eyes flashing, red tongues slavering, virulent spittle flying, hideous power driving beneath coarse black fur, hurling toward the wounded.
“Châkka shok! Châkka cor!” Thork vented the ancient Dwarven battlecry.
“Hál Jordreich! [Hail the Realm of Jord!]” Elyn turned about to face the onrushing pack, taking now a stance at Thork’s left side, bringing her saber up high, ready for the killing blow. Thork, too, shifted his stance to face the onslaught, hammer raised to strike.
And the hurling Vulgs drove toward the two of them, guttural sounds wrenching from their chests and throats, the hideous pack now upon them, black bodies springing, hurtling through the air.
And suddenly from behind Elyn and Thork, great snarling silver shapes flashed past and whelmed into the black assault.
Wolves! Silver Wolves! As if from nowhere came Wolves of legend, a dozen or more of the argent beasts, the Wolves nearly as large as ponies, yet blindingly quick, long fangs slashing and rending, black Vulgs falling dead. Fury raged all about the twain on the knoll, their own weapons forgotten in their bedazement.