Fire in their eyes, flame in their hearts,
Their spirits, ablazing, did burn.
Dragonboats skimming o’er the waves,
Wild Wolves running asea,
Swiftly o’er the sapphire tides,
Before them the wind did flee.
Down through a stony land they fared,
To come to a Dragon’s lair,
Long was the day, strong was the Sun,
Blackstone, ’tis Blackstone, beware.
Into the dark holt heart they strode,
Armed with a bright cunning plan.
Quick was their labor, swift their deeds,
Setting the trap of the Ban.
Soon all was ready, the time at hand,
And after Sleeth ten fared,
Seeking, searching, unwinding a maze,
Into the blackness they dared.
Deep in the darkness, sleeping on gold,
They found his ophidian lair,
Savage his waking, deadly his welcome,
Of ten there survived but a pair.
Swift did they fly, even though wounded,
Luring the Cold-drake behind.
Sure were their steps, running on arrows,
Even though one was half blind.
Into the chamber roared the grim Dragon,
The dashing brave warriors ahead,
Down came the canvas, letting in daylight,
To smite the vile Cold-drake dead.
Elgo, Prince Elgo, victorious,
His eye lost to Drake’s dire spume,
His cunning defeated a Dragon,
Elgo, Prince Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.
Gathering up the great treasure,
Back o’er the dark seas they came,
Mighty, the storm whelmed upon them,
Driving them toward the sea’s bane.
Into the roaring suck they were drawn,
Three ships bearing Dracongield,
Vile Hèlarms clutched upon them,
And many brave warriors were felled.
One Dragonboat escaped the vortex,
One ship fled the sea bane,
One ship won free of the Maelstrom,
Riding a wild hurricane.
Mayhap a curse lies on Dracongield.
Mayhap ’tis a saying to be spurned.
Yet think on this when considering:
Forty-one rode out, eleven returned.
And then there be the great Dragonships,
Each a Fjordsman’s pride;
Do there be a curse on Dracongield?
Four set forth, one survived.
Curse or no, a Dragon was slain,
A deed of derring-do,
The Men who did it will live forever,
Would that I had gone, too.
Yet none would have fared on this venture
Had there not been a daring plan,
Clever and bold to slay Dragon old,
The thought of a single Man.
Elgo, Prince Elgo, victorious,
Eye lost to Drake’s dire spume,
His cunning defeated a Dragon,
Elgo, Prince Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.
When the song came to its end, at first all in the hall was quiet, except for some who wept, and Estor’s heart fell. But then a thunderous cheering broke out, cups banging upon wooden table. And ’midst the roaring applause, Prince Elgo called the singer to him and placed upon his arm a golden torque, saying, “Make certain that Trent the Bard hears this song of yours, Estor.”
Glancing up from the rich reward, the young minstrel gazed upon the tear-wet cheek of the Prince. “But, Sire, Trent no longer lifts his voice in tale telling and saga singing. He has retired from the courtly life and has removed himself to a small cote. He no longer sings.”
“Nevertheless, Estor, carry it to his ears,” Elgo commanded, “for I would have him hear it-especially him-and he will know why.”
Puzzled, Estor bowed to the one-eyed Prince, promising that he would bear the tale, the song, unto Trent. And then the calls for another rendition of his ballade became too demanding to ignore, and so, saluting Elgo, Estor took up his lute and placed his back against the very stone pillar where another bard had once stood singing of the same Dragon, yet this time, none laughed at Elgo. And the young bard sang his song once more.
And again. .
And again. .
And. .
In fact, Estor sang his saga many times that night. And in the months and years and centuries to come, it would prove to be one of the most enduring ballades to be carolled and chanted by bards throughout Mithgar.
And from that first night forward and thereafter, Elgo became known as Sleeth’s Doom, a name to live in legend throughout time.
Deep in the Châkkaholt of Kachar word came as the dregs of winter stirred among the mountains of the Grimwalclass="underline" Sleeth is dead. Blackstone is free.
And in this stone cavern, sitting in a side chair drawn up before the throne of Brak was Tarken the trader, bearer of the news. “Aye, DelfLord,” affirmed the aging Châk merchant, “that is the whole tale. Sleeth, they say, is dead. Slain by Elgo, Prince of the Vanadurin. Tricked the Drake into Adon’s light, he did, or so they say.”
“And you are certain about Blackstone?” Brak stroked his forked black beard, his dark eyes glinting in the phosphorescent glow of high-bracketed Châkka lanterns, the DelfLord no more than one hundred fifty years old, a powerful Dwarf in his prime.
“As certain as may be, what with the tales I heard. Blackstone is free, as far as any know,” responded Tarken, turning at the sound of footsteps ringing on stone as two sturdy Châk warriors strode into the chamber.
“Baran, Thork,” called out Brak, waving the pair inward, “I would have you hear the news Tarken brings.” And as the twain stepped unto the throne, the DelfLord growled, “These are my sons, Tarken.” Yet, in spite of his gruff tone, Brak’s eyes shone with pride.
And proud he should be, for the two were strong of limb and clear of gaze, and bore themselves with grace and power. Black were their hair and beards and eyes, and in this they were like unto their sire. Too, they carried an air of command about them, and Tarken knew that many would follow either one of them into the very jaws of Hèl if they but commanded it. Dressed in dark leathers ’neath black-iron chain shirts, each bore a thong-slung axe upon his back, ready for use. Baran was the elder of the two, some five years Thork’s senior. Yet as to which seemed to lead and which to follow, it was not certain.
Each bowed stiffly to the white-bearded trader clothed in shades of green, and Tarken got up from his seat and returned the courtesy.
“What is this I hear about Sleeth?” queried Baran.
“And Blackstone?” added Thork.
Tarken’s laughter barked forth. “Hah! The cubs are like unto their badger sire, Brak: right to the business at hand.”