In the dark of the night, Arianne awoke screaming Elgo’s name.
And even though it was now summer, Elyn had the irrational notion that the nighttime skies ran blood red. And she arose from her bed and walked out upon the dark battlements and gazed at the starry skies above, as if seeking omens in its wheeling pattern. No aurora ran scarlet overhead, though a spate of falling stars streaked upon fiery golden tails across the startled heavens.
Summer slowly waned, stepping toward autumn, and still no word came from Skaldfjord. And some petitioned the King to send a scout, a herald, a representative of some kind to seek news, Arianne among these. “If we’ve not heard by autumn’s coming, then will I send an emissary,” was his reply.
Redwing swooped and glided through the high blue sky, his calls skreeing down to those below. Bram laughed to see the bird plummet in a stoop, plunging toward the earth to bring down game. Kyla, Arianne, and Elyn sat upon a cloth spread o’er grass and nibbled at their meal, while Mala stood nearby and watched the flying hunter, the leather hawking gauntlet upon her right arm. The bird pulled up short from his dive, the quarry gone to earth, Redwing hurtling low across the prairie, Mala’s eye following him for a while, but then coming to a stop as movement afar arrested her sight.
“Hmmp,” growled Mala, “now who could that be? Men on horseback. Waggons too.”
Elyn stood and shaded her eyes and gazed, counting-“Eleven at most, I make it: nine horses mounted, two wains driven”-also wondering at what small band it might be in the distance, making their way southeasterly toward the castle. But then she espied a jet-black steed, and a white-speckled roan as well. “Arianne!” she cried. “ ’Tis Elgo! And Ruric!”
Flinging herself upon her horse, Wind, Elyn spurred toward the distant column, shouting and hallooing as she went, racing at a Hèlbent gallop. Behind came Arianne, her milk-white horse swift as well.
And breaking away from the column came three, Elgo and Ruric and Reynor, racing toward the twain. And the horses skidded to a halt out upon the prairie, the riders stopping and dismounting at one and the same time. And Arianne flung herself into Elgo’s arms, while Elyn hugged them both, and Ruric and Reynor as well.
And Elgo clung to Arianne and wept, all the sorrow and mourning for his lost comrades welling up within him in an overwhelming surge at this his homecoming.
Ruric, too, wept, as did they all, Reynor and Elyn and Arianne, for they were home at last.
And Elgo stood before them, his face scarred, a patch upon one eye, and a white streak through his copper hair. But Arianne did not care, for her beloved was back.
It was the first day of autumn.
CHAPTER 18
Late Winter, 3E1602
[This Year]
Black Kalgalath watched the shimmering image approach across the heaving lava pool. Fountains of fire gouted upward, molten rock spewing forth. Still the dark, robed, hooded figure came onward, unaffected by the volcanic blast, striding upon the belch of magma vomiting up from the gut of the world.
Upon the brimstone ledge that formed his flaming dais, Black Kalgalath waited.
At last the Manlike form stood before the Drake, stood upon the seething surface, stood within a very crucible of creation and destruction, as flame and stone united in elemental fury.
“Dark Wyrm,” whispered the visitant-a Man? An Elf? Something else? It mattered not to Kalgalath.
“Andrak,” acknowledged the Dragon. “What brings the great and powerful Andrak into my domain?” Echoes of mocking laughter seemed to ring in Kalgalath’s brazen voice.
Lava heaved, and molten stone gushed upward. Overhead, the incandescent chamber sagged, and a massive stream of fiery magma poured down upon the shadowy intruder, to no effect.
From within the environs of the dark cowl came the whispered response: “Sleeth is dead, Dark Wyrm.”
Belying his great bulk, Black Kalgalath snaked his head down and forward, staring directly into the visitant’s hood, his Drake’s gaze seeking to penetrate the shadows within. But even Dragon eyes could not see what lay inside the cowl. “Dead? Sleeth? — How?”
“The Ban, Dark Wyrm,” hissed Andrak. “Adon’s Ban!” His fists clenched. “Cursed be the day when He set His Ban upon us all, shackling our power.”
“Pah, Wizard!”-Kalgalath’s words clanged-“Your power is limited by the Sun, not mine! My fire burns!” A great blast of flame burst forth from the Drake’s throat, roaring over Andra’s dark form-to no avail, the Mage acknowledging it only by a motion of annoyance.
“Yes, Dark Wyrm,” sissed the Wizard, “your flame burns. And had you joined with your loyal brethren, especially with Daagor, the outcome of the Great War would have been different, and all Drakes would-”
“Silence!” Kalgalath’s great voice clashed forth. “Prattle to me not of how things might have been!”
A hostile stillness stretched taut between Mage and Drake, a silence anchored upon the massive bellow of the lava cauldron. Roaring fountains of liquescent stone vomited upward, slathering both Dragon and Wizard with magma beyond bearing, yet neither took heed.
At last Andrak spoke, whispering: “You can now have Blackstone, Dark Wyrm, a lair befitting a great Drake.”
“Blackstone? I?” Kalgalath’s golden eyes blazed in contempt. “Bah! What need I of such a cold tomb? Look around you, Wizard, and see my magnificent caldera.”
“You have this place only in your dark dreams, Wyrm,” sissed Andrak, waving a negligent hand as if to dismiss the boiling lava cavern. “With Blackstone you would gain a true fortress beyond compare, one you would occupy in the waking world as well.”
“I covet my fire, Mage,” boomed the Dragon, “and in Blackstone it burns too deeply for my etheric self to reach. But here. .” Kalgalath gestured, five glittering adamantine claws sweeping grandly. A huge burst of lava roared forth from the incandescent wall behind the brimstone ledge, an enormous flaming cataract brightly cascading into the glowing vault.
“Enough, Dark Wyrm, enough. These displays are irksome, and weary me.” Andrak turned as if to go.
Kalgalath said nought, waiting.
As if remembering a stray thought, once more Andrak faced toward the Drake; and unheard echoes of brazen laughter seemed to fill the cavern.
“One thing, Dark Wyrm-” Andrak began.
“The hoard, Mage.” The great Dragon shifted his bulk, his voice tinged with the explanation of the obvious. “Why else would you come?” Again silent mocking reverberated.
Only by the white knuckles of his clenched fists did the robed Magician in the dark cowl show his anger, yet after but a moment did he master his ire, his hands relaxing open. “Why indeed, Wyrm. Why else indeed,” came the hissing admission.
“Who has it, and what trifling do you want?” Black Kalgalath turned his head, his golden gaze watching magma heave and spew.
“It is but a small, insignificant item, Dark Wyrm,” whispered the Mage, his unseen eyes studying the back of his hand.
“Hah!” Kalgalath boomed. “Insignificant? Nay, Mage. Never would you ask for such. Instead it would be an item to hold sway over others. A power token, let us say. Or better yet, a feartoken.”
“Mayhap, Dark Wyrm,” sissed Andrak, “yet that is a minor price to pay for such a hoard as Sleeth’s.”
“Describe the token, Wizard.” Kalgalath’s voice took on a tone that said he grew tired of this tit-for-tat game.
“It is nought but a small silver horn, Wyrm,” whispered Andrak. “Seemingly Dwarven made. Runes carven on its bell, twined with riders on horseback racing among the glyphs.”