During the cutting out of Elgo’s ruined eye, Men had gone down into Blackstone, down into the Dragon’s lair, to recover the corpses of the eight slain Harlingar. Tearfully, they had gathered up the reft bodies of their comrades, bearing the remains unto the daylight.
Ruric had commanded that they be borne out to the mouth of the vale and buried there ’neath green turves. “Yet hold yer grief; we shall mourn when last we leave this abode of Death.”
Others had come to the Armsmaster, telling him of the vastness of the trove; and Ruric had glanced first at the bodies of the slain and then over at those struggling to hold Elgo while Pwyl cut at the gaping eye, the nearby searing knife cherry red upon hot coals, and the Armsmaster had wondered then at the curse of Dracongield.
But now the burial squad had departed, and Elgo slept drugged; and in the center of the great western hall lay the gigantic corpse of a slain Cold-drake.
Sometime during the night Ruric was awakened by the sound of metal striking metal. And by lantern light he looked to see Elgo, hammer in one hand, chisel in the other, whelming at the brow of dead Sleeth, cutting a great flap of hide from the Drake’s face. And where Dragonblood dripped, smoke curled up from the stone.
Ruric stood and stepped to the Prince’s side, to hear him muttering under his breath with each blow, but what he said, the Armsmaster could not discern. Sweat ran down Elgo’s arms and back, more poured down his forehead, and he would stop at times to wipe his brow, dabbing carefully at his seared face. At Elgo’s feet lay three dulled chisels, blunted by the iridescent glittering scales. “My Prince-”
Clang! “He ruined my face, Ruric”-Dlang! — “I but return the favor”-Chang! — “Dwarven steel is”-Chank! — “worthy; I took the best from the smithy”-Clank-“yet Drake armor must be forged in the very pits of Hèl.”
Ruric looked into Elgo’s remaining good eye and saw that it was glazed with fever. The Armsmaster awakened both healers, Pwyl and Alda, and the two closely observed the Prince, the healers speaking quietly to one another. Then Alda prepared another potion, yet Elgo would not drink it until the great swath of Dragonhide at last came free. Clank, chank. The Prince dropped hammer and chisel. And wiping his brow, he gulped down the draught, then dragged the flap of skin to his bedding, hurling the hide against the nearby wall and collapsing into a fevered sleep.
“Pwyl? Alda?” Ruric asked an unspoken question.
“It is his burned face, Armsmaster, and his ruined eye. . and mayhap the Dragon spew as well,” answered the senior healer. “They fever him. And there is little that we can do except to pray to Adon that he throws these foul vapors off.” Ruric glanced at Alda, who nodded, agreeing with Pwyl’s words.
The Armsmaster lay down once more and tried to recapture sleep. Yet through his mind rolling over and over came an unbidden single word: Dracongield.
Early morn of the next day the burial squad returned; Elgo’s fever yet raged; and a curious thing happened to Sleeth the Orm’s corpse: where Elgo had chopped away the hide from the Drake’s face, the bones and muscle and tissues inside withered before the daylight; Adon’s Ban took its full toll where the Dragonscale protected not.
This day, too, Ruric went into the depths of Blackstone to see for himself the greatness of the trove. It was vast. More than could be borne in the four pony-drawn waggons. Gems and gold formed the bulk of it, though here and there silveron winked in the lamplight. There were coins and twisted bracelets and carven chalices, torques and bejewelled necklaces and gem-covered cups, ropes of gold, a small silveron trumpet etched with riders ahorse racing among mystic runes carven upon the bell, jewelled ingots, bags of golden tokens, candelabras finely wrought, golden lamps and lanterns and spoons and forks, knives of electrum, emerald necklaces set with rubies, diamonds. . and more, much more, all mounded into a great pile, an Orm’s bed: a hoard beyond reckoning.
Down a side passage near the entrance, Young Kemp and Arlan found twelve or so Dwarf wains, made for hauling large loads of heavy cargo. Though they were ancient, still they were perfectly preserved, having been stored in the dry air of the cavern. They were made to be drawn by four horses each, the trappings hanging on hooks nearby. Three of the waggons were selected, and an unopened bucket of grease was located, but the contents had caked with age; instead, the axles and whiffletrees were treated with tallow and lamp oil, as well as the traces, though fat would be used as soon as game could be felled.
And Men pushed and pulled the wains and waggons down into the Dragon’s lair, for horses refused to go even into the west hall; for the corpse of the Drake lay within, amid the stench of a great dead snake, and the Vanadurin would not force their steeds past this afrightening thing.
And so the trove was loaded, filling four small and three large wains, the Men sweating and swearing as they pushed each waggon in turn out of the bowels of Blackstone, moving the now-laden hoard to the courtyard.
This took all of two days, and throughout Elgo’s fever raged. Pwyl doctored the Prince with herbs and simples, yet nought seemed to have an effect.
On the third day, Elgo’s fever broke, and he fell into a natural sleep. After consulting with the healers as to when Elgo could travel-abed in a waggon if need be-Ruric declared that on the morrow the Warband would set forth, for they had a far northern rendezvous to keep with the Dragonboats of the Fjordsmen.
The next morning Ruric, Reynor, Pwyl, and Alda tenderly placed Elgo upon a bedding of blankets in one of the wains, the burnt-faced Prince still asleep. Beside him upon part of the trove Ruric cast the swath of Dragonhide that Elgo had laboriously gouged from Sleeth’s brow. And as the Sun edged up into the sky on the east side of the mountains, at last the Harlingar column started down the steep-walled vale in the dawntide shadows on the west, leaving Blackstone behind.
Slowly they wended down the sheer canyon, passing under the high stone wall spanning the narrows of the gorge, through the hollow twisting way below the crenellated battlements, and out from under the deserted barbican: four pony-drawn waggons, three Dwarf wains pulled by four steeds each, two empty-saddled horses-Shade one of them-tethered to tailgates, and twenty-six mounts bearing Vanadurin. Forty-one riders had entered the vale; thirty-three survivors rode out.
Long they paced down the twisting valley, following alongside the streambed, the trundling wains rolling slowly upon the ancient carven stone roadway, axles groaning under the burden of the hoard. But finally they emerged from the vale, and came upon eight turved mounds.
Ruric called a halt, and all Men dismounted, the drivers clambering down from the waggons, as well. All stepped unto the close-set barrows, and stood in a semicircle and removed their helms, and many wept. Ruric’s voice lifted up in an elder benediction of the Vanadurin:
Ride forth, Harlingar, ride forth,
Along the Shadowed Way,
Where only Heroes gallop
And Steeds never tire.
Hál, Warriors of the Spear and Saber!
Hál, Warriors of the Knife and Arrow!
Hál, Warriors of the Horn and Horse!
Ride forth, my comrades, ride forth!