Dragondoom

CHAPTER 34

Early Winter, 3E1602

[This Year]

Again the etheric self of Black Kalgalath watched as the dark shape of Andrak crossed the heaving magma deep within the fiery caldera of the Fire-drake’s volcanic domain. And molten stone spumed and lava fountains burst forth to drench the approaching form, to no avail, for onward came the figure through the shimmering blast. At last the dark visitant stood at the foot of the flaming dais, and the Dragon waited for the Mage to speak.

“Two who sought the Kammerling are dead, Drake,” whispered the voice of the Wizard, “storm-slain. Once more by my hand you are safe; the Rage Hammer remains untouched by any would-be heroes.”

Black Kalgalath inclined his head, acknowledging Andrak’s words but saying nought, divining the Mage’s real purpose in coming, waiting, silent laughter mocking.

Andrak took a half step forward. “Did you acquire the treasure, Dark Wyrm?”

Still Kalgalath said nought, the mirth of his silence confirming what the Magus already knew.

“Remember our bargain, Drake,” sissed Andrak, dark hands reaching out, clutching. “The silver horn: Was it there? I must have it. I will send for it.”

Slowly, down and forward the black Dragon snaked his head, until his golden eyes were level with the ebon cowl, his Drake’s gaze seeking to penetrate the darkness within the hood, failing. Molten stone poured in a stream from overhead; bubbling lava heaved.

“No, Mage,” hissed Kalgalath at last, “it was not there.” And the Drake threw back his head, his thundering laughter booming within the seething chamber.

Andrak clenched his hands in fury, knuckles turning white. Long moments passed, and still Kalgalath’s laughter bellowed forth. Yet at last Andrak’s rage abated, and reason held sway. “Then it must be churning at the bottom of the Maelstrom, pulled down with the Dragonships of the Fjordsmen. Hence, it is not lost, just mislaid. There is still a chance for recovery, Wyrm, mayhap in a century or so, at the next mating time. Mayhap before, can I influence one of the Krakens to seek it. Regardless, it is still owed to me by you, and when next you couple within those dark depths-”

Black Kalgalath’s roar of anger whelmed down upon Andrak’s form, and a raving jet of fire burst forth from the Drake’s throat and blasted the Mage. . to no effect. “You!” thundered the Fire-drake. “I owe you nought! Our bargain was that if the silver horn was in the hoard at Jordkeep, then would I deliver it to you. Heed me, fool: It was not in the hoard, and so our bargain is done! And if you expect me to search for an unimportant trinket during the dire time of the mating, then you are a greater fool than even I suspected!”

Andrak’s figure shook in rage, and he started moving his hands in an arcane pattern, yet stopped almost immediately, realizing the futility of the gesture as long as both he and the Dragon were in their present forms.

And so they glared long at one another: the Drake crouching on a molten throne, as if to leap upon this intruder; the Mage with no discernible eyes, yet rage burning forth from his dark cowl. And all about them lava spewed and molten rock poured down in seething streams from above. At last Andrak broke the impasse: “I will have that horn, Wyrm,” he vowed, and spun on his heel and stalked off through the fire and brimstone.

And Black Kalgalath watched as the dark visitant slowly crossed the molten cauldron. And the mighty Dragon thought upon the raging deeps of the Great Maelstrom, and of the dreadful creatures that dwelled down within that hideous abyss. “Not likely, Mage,” he hissed to himself. “Not likely.”