“Know you that this token lies within the hoard?” Now Kalgalath peered intently at the Mage. “For if it does not then the hoard becomes mine with nought owed you.”
There was a long pause as Andrak considered Kalgalath’s words. “No, Wyrm, I cannot say for certain that it lies within the hoard. The horn was hidden away long ago-in Blackstone, it is believed. Yet perhaps not. But if so, it could have been part of the hoard. Too, some of the treasure was lost, and now lies at the bottom of the sea, and mayhap the horn was among that which sank. But if it is with the remainder of the hoard-”
“Fear not, Mage; if it is there, then I will bring it to you, though I claim the rest of the treasure as mine for this deed I do.” Kalgalath again snaked his head down to confront the dark figure. “Did I not bring you the Kammerling?”
“Yes, Wyrm,” hissed Andrak. “And I ward it well. None shall gain it to come seeking you.”
“As I remember our bargain, Wizard, you were to guard the Kammerling, and in return I would hold your true name secret.” Kalgalath arched his mighty neck, peering down at the Mage from a great height. Behind the Drake, fire poured forth from molten stone wall to meet like flame spewing up from below. “Hence, as I see it, we each hold that which could slay the other. A fair compact, I would deem.”
“Nay, Wyrm, not so fair,” sissed Andrak, “for I must deal with those champions who come seeking the Rage Hammer, whereas you must merely keep silent.”
Again, though all was still, soundless brazen echoes of mirth seemed to ring out from the Drake, and waves of ire beat forth from the Mage.
Finally: “We dally, Wizard, and speak of bargains long past struck.” Kalgalath’s glittering eye fixed upon the shadowy figure. “Who has the hoard, and where?”
“The Harlingar, the Vanadurin,” came the whispered reply. “At the keep of Aranor, upon the Steppes of Jord. ’Twas Aranor’s son, Elgo, who tricked Sleeth into the Sun that slew him.”
“A Man?” Kalgalath’s voice held true surprise.
“A Vanadurin warrior, Dark Wyrm,” sissed Andrak. “He slew Sleeth and took the treasure as his own.”
Kalgalath’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “For his presumption, this Elgo, I will take lives as well as the hoard.”
The great Drake then lay his massive head down upon the flaming ledge, his eyes closed; no longer did he seem to note the presence of the Mage.
Long moments passed, while molten stone frothed and spumed.
“When?” hissed Andrak.
“When I deem,” replied Kalgalath. His eyes remained closed.
Finally, the dark figure turned and walked away from the mighty Dragon’s burning throne. Lava heaved and magma burst forth; molten fountains of flaming stone roared upward, meeting fiery cataracts of melted rock cascading down into the bellowing inferno. Andrak paid it no heed as he strode across the churning surface.
Slowly the dark figure diminished in the distance, until at last it was gone.
CHAPTER 19
Winter, Early Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
Like wildfire, word of the Slaying of Sleeth spread throughout Jord, and then beyond: into Aven and Riamon and Naud and Kath, and across their far borders as well. Travellers carried the tale: traders, hunters, folk on journeys to see relatives and loved ones. Wherever people fared, they carried the story with them, a story that grew with the telling until it no longer resembled the truth.
There came a howling brumal day that a half-frozen young Man rode through the flinging snow and into the bailey. Guards pulled him from his winter-shagged horse, for he could not dismount on his own, so cold was he. His steed was taken to the stable as the Man himself was led into the warmth of the garrison quarters. And when they had peeled him out of his frozen cloak and had thawed the ice from his hair and eyebrows and beard, they found a handsome youth from the Realm of Pellar. Black was his hair and brown his eyes, and he was as lean as a hungry Wolf. Estor was his name, and he was a bard, and even in the depth of winter he had come unto Jord to seek the roots of truth in this remarkable tale of Men who had slain a Dragon. And after some time he was escorted into the presence of the Prince, and the singer could see for himself the black eye patch and acid-wrought scarring of the Jordian heir, as well as the white streak through Elgo’s coppery hair, a streak said to have appeared when the Longwyrm had become caught in the vortex of the Maelstrom.
Long was he closeted with Elgo, learning the tale. Yet this was not a one-sided exchange, for Elgo learned from Estor that the Jutlander fleet pursuing Arik had perished in the fury of the hurricane, all ships lost; hence it would be many a long year ere the Jutlanders recovered, many a year ere they and the Fjordsmen would clash again to perhaps settle their blood feud once and for all.
Too, Estor spoke at length with the other survivors-Ruric, Reynor, Young Kemp, Pwyl, Arlan, and five more. . forty had ridden forth with Elgo, ten had returned-from whom he gleaned additional details of the story.
And he saw for himself the treasure trove, marvelling that this was but a third of Sleeth’s hoard. And it was all there, all that remained of the great finding-all, that is, but for a small silver horn taken by Bram the day of Elgo’s return, for the wee bairn had clutched the shiny trump, refusing to give it over to Mala for inspection; Elgo had laughed, saying that his son would be a better treasure hunter than any that had come before him-it was the first time that humor had visited Elgo since setting eye upon the hoard-and Bram was allowed to keep the small argent clarion.
And as Estor viewed the trove, Ruric hung back. For the Armsmaster was yet ashamed of his behavior upon the Longwyrm, though others had long since forgiven him-for his head had been nigh cracked open by the fall ’gainst the oar trestle, and he knew not nor did he even remember that which he had done. Even so, Ruric confessed to Estor that he still held to his basic beliefs: “. . Mark me, young bard, Dracongield carries a curse-all Dragonhoards bear curses-yet in spite o’ them, Men and heroes will ever covet Dragontroves, as well as other legendary treasures; and our success at slaying a Cold-drake will lead many a would-be paladin to gi’ over his life chasing after some will-o’-the-wisp fable, snatching ever after for some touch o’ glory. Aye, they all carry curses, be it Dracongield or faerygield or legendary artifact.
“But curse or no, still I should ha’e followed the lead o’ my Prince, instead o’ casting gold into the sea, or so ’tis they tell me I tried.”
And Estor spent long weeks closeted with his lute, at last coming to Aranor and asking to sing at the evening meal.
The hall was crowded unto near bursting that night, all waiting to hear the bard. Extra tables and benches had been placed ’round the room, each filled to capacity. Servants rushed thither and yon, filling mugs and goblets, bearing trays laden with food. Aranor sat at the head table, and at his side were Elgo and Elyn, as well as Arianne and Mala. Too, Kyla and Darcy and Elise were in attendance, and Ruric and Reynor and Pwyl and Arlan and Young Kemp and the others of those who had survived the Dragon-slaying quest.
And there came a time when Estor stood, and slowly the hall fell quiet as the bard softly tuned his lute. When all was silent, the young Man looked to King Aranor, receiving a nod to begin. And then it was that the lean poet gave voice to his song, Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom:
Down from the Steppes of Jord they came,
Their numbers, all told, forty-one,