Dragondoom

CHAPTER 5

Year’s Long Night, 3E8

[Centuries Apast]

Deep under the burden of the Rigga Mountains, the very air of the eld Dwarvenholt of Blackstone was charged with anticipation. The solemn, twelve-day fast was drawing to an end, and the joyous twelve-day feast was about to begin. Cheol-Winterfest-would commence at mid of night on this longest of darktides, and once again would bright light and industry fill the carven halls.

It was a reverent time of renewal, not only for the Châkka-the Dwarves-in Blackstone, but for Châkka in all Dwarvenholts throughout Mitheor: in the Red Caves and Mineholt North, in Bluehall and the Quartzen Hills and Skyloft, in Kachar and mighty Kraggen-cor and elsewhere-wherever Châkka dwelled.

Twelve days past they had laid aside their tools-all work halted: picks and mattocks ceased delving treasured ores; carts moved not; forge fires died, furnaces fell cold, crucibles turned dark; hammers and anvils rang with silence; neither did whetstone grind nor auger bore; ovens baked not, nor did spits turn nor pots stew. All stopped: all delving, forging, crafting, shaping, turning, baking, cooking. . all.

And for twelve days an intense stillness fell upon the caverns. And Châkka thought deeply upon Honor and Life and Death, upon their proud History, and upon the Shades of their revered Ancestors. Aye, twelve long days and nights of brooding contemplation consumed each Châk’s life, and only calamitous War or other dire necessity would or could cause a Dwarf to break from this inward questing for the essence of Châkkadom.

In this time, too, the Loremasters would gather Châkka youth, as well as others, and speak of Creation and Death and Purpose. These are the words of the Loremasters:

When Adon made Mitheor, it was lush and green. And fish swam in the waters, beasts roamed the lands, birds filled the air. Rain and Sun, wind and night, the Moon, the stars, the day, Mountains and rivers, grass upon the plains, hot desert sands and barren wastes of ice and snow: all these and more were part of Adon’s design-and they were wondrous to behold.

Yet Elwydd looked down upon Her Sire’s handiwork and saw that there were no Folk upon the world. And so she set Her gentle hand unto this creation. Utruni, Men, Châkka, Waerans: from the large to the small, these-and mayhap more-She brought forth upon the face of Mitheor.

As for their manifold purposes, Elwydd did not reveal these, though She knows what they are; instead, She allows each Folk to select their own course, to find their own way, but no Folk know for certain that their chosen paths bring them closer to the hidden goals.

Yet this we do know: to the Châkka She gave the underMountain realms, and the mastery of stone and fire. . Stone and fire: it governs how we live and it aids us when we die, for it is through pure stone or the cleansing fire that our spirits are set free after death. . free to roam among the stars until again it is time to start another cycle: to be reborn, to live, and to die and once more walk the vault above.

And as our spirits stride among the stars, we touch their wondrous beauty and know their shining secret. And though it is that each time we are reborn we cannot remember the way of their crafting, still the stars are marvelous, and their echoes haunt our dreams. And all that we do, all that we craft, is but an attempt to match their grace-for we believe that Elwydd has given that task to the Châkka: to touch the stars.

Thus it was that Adon made Mitheor. . But it was Elwydd, His Daughter, who placed Folk upon the world. And it was She who set before them the tasks that they are to fathom, and the mysteries that they are to resolve. .

. . or so the Loremasters say.

For twelve days and nights the Dwarves had fasted and pondered upon these enigmas, as well as History and Ancestors and Honor and Life and Death. Yet this annual quest was once more drawing to a close, for with the Starlight Invocation, held at mid of night on Year’s Long Night, the contemplation and fasting would come to an end, and twelve days of revelry and feasting would begin. And when these twelve days also came to a close, forges and furnaces would be new-fired, ores mined, metals refined, gems carved, and the great crafting of arms, armor, jewelry, tools, and all the other items of Châkka industry would commence once more.

And as Year’s Long Night deepened, the aromas of succulent roasts and baked breads and rare spices and hot pastries wafted throughout the halls and chambers of each holt, for at sundown the preparations for the feasting had begun.

In Blackstone-known as the Jewel of Châkkaholts, for here was delved silver and gold and precious stones-DelfLord Bokar watched as Châkka began to gather in the great West Hall, for mid of night drew nigh.

Bokar stepped through the postern at the side of the mighty gate. Out into the clear Mountain air he came, out into the winter night. He nodded at the sentries on watch, and strode into the wide foregate courtyard, his boots stepping upon smoothed granite. Pacing to the center, he stopped, gazing at the star pattern above.

It was time.

At Bokar’s signal, a sentry stepped back through the small side-door. Swiftly, the bolts were thrown and the great bars withdrawn, and the massive gates ponderously swung outward, till they fetched up against flanking stone walls: Boom! Boom!

Yellow light streamed out across the courtyard, and chill air seeped into the holt, washing over the assembled Dwarves, causing some to shiver. And all had gathered: young and old, hale and lame, male and female; even the ill and infirm had been borne to this place, for all would worship this holy night.

At another signal from Bokar, the gathered Châkka surged outward, out into the pellucid night under the brilliant stars. Yet even had the skies been overcast, even had a blizzard raged, still all the Châkka would have marched out from under the Mountain to stand in the open beneath whatever sky there may be-for this was the night of the Starlight Invocation, and mere weather would not stay the Dwarves from reaffirming their faith. . clear cast, dark cast, starlight, or no. But this night was crystalline-perfect-and a bright full Moon stood overhead.

And when all the Châkka had gathered, Bokar mounted up a massive rock pedestal in the center of the expanse, and every Dwarven eye focused upon him; and thus none saw the great sinister silhouette slide across the silvery face of the Moon to quickly vanish, becoming virtually undetectable against the spangled vault.

The DelfLord lifted his face and arms to the star-studded heavens and raised his voice unto the sky, speaking the great litany, the unified response of the gathered Châkka alternating with his, cantor and chorale, the echoes of supplication resounding among the stone of the Rigga Mountains:

[Elwydd-

— Lol an Adon. .]

Elwydd-

— Daughter of Adon

We thank Thee-

— For Thy gentle hand

That gave to us-

— The breath of Life

May this be-

— The golden year

That Châkka-

— Touch the stars.

Bokar lowered his arms, and long after the belling echoes had ceased to ring, reverent silence reigned. And all that could be heard was the soft churning gurgle of water running ’neath ice somewhere nearby.

At last the DelfLord cleared his throat, and all faces turned expectantly toward his. He gazed once more at the stars above, the spangle wheeling silently overhead. And again he marveled at their scintillant pattern, fixed, but for the five known wanderers charting courses of their own. What destiny lies in your matrix this night, he wondered, what omens do your lights conceal? Shaking his head to clear these thoughts, he came to the matter at hand, for the skies had swept to the depth of the darktide. And his voice cried out, “Here now at Blackstone it is mid of night. Let the winterfest of Cheol begin!”

A glad shout rose up into the sky, and Dwarves turned from the chill winter night toward the warm yellow light of the cheery Dwarvenholt beyond the massive open portals.

But the glad shout was lost under a great brazen bellow.

And the hammer of vast leathery wings drove a whelming wind down upon the Châkka, striking them to their knees.

And a huge, scaled monster slammed down among the Dwarves in the courtyard before the gates, crushing Châkka beneath its enormous bulk.

Sleeth the Orm had come, and he was terrible.

Double-bitted Dwarven axes leapt to Châkka hands, but great claws like scimitars lashed out, riving and slashing, cleaving Dwarves in twain. Warriors rushed forward shouting battle cries, but huge jaws snapped, teeth clashing and tearing, rending through flesh and armor alike. Châkka squads fell back to regroup, but a massive sinuous tail whipped about, striking, smashing, crushing.

But most devastating of all, jets of dire spume shot forth from Sleeth’s throat, and where they touched, stone bubbled and metal smoldered and flesh charred, though no flame burned-for Sleeth was a Cold-drake, bereft of his fire by Adon. Even so, this Orm’s breath was deadly, for a cloud of poison boiled from his mouth, and Dwarves died gasping, their lungs aflame as they fell dead unto the stone.

And nought that the Dwarves did brought hurt unto Sleeth, for their axes but glanced away from the Dragon-armored hide, and Sleeth slew them even as they desperately raised their blades for yet another blow. Châkka were struck down as they tried to win past Sleeth and gain the mighty holtdoors of Blackstone, hoping to shut the gates and bar the Cold-drake from the Dwarvenholt. But Sleeth stood before the portal and would not yield.

Young and old, hale and weak, male and female, sire, dam, child, it mattered not: Sleeth slew indiscriminately. By fang and claw and lashing tail, by charring spume and poison breath he felled them. For Death incarnate had come unto Blackstone, and amid cries of despair, Châkka by the hundreds died. Not all, for some escaped into the winter night, yet more than two-thirds fell to the Dragon. But none, not a single Dwarf, had won past the dread monster and into the Châkkaholt.

And when all the Dwarves were slain or had fled weeping into the frigid darkness, Sleeth roared in triumph, his voice like immense, massive, coarse brass slabs clashing and shearing one upon the other, his mighty clangor crashing out into the night. And as the echoes shocked and slapped among the icy crags, the great Orm turned and with his mighty claws he rent the gates blanging down from their hinges, and then he ponderously slithered into Blackstone to make it into his lair, slithered into Blackstone to claim a treasure trove, slithered into Blackstone where a great banquet of Winterfest lay waiting-a feast no Châk would ever eat. .

. . and sixteen hundred years passed.