Dragondoom

CHAPTER 7

Spring, 3E1601

[Last Year]

Each of the four Dragonships-Longwyrm, Surfbison, Foamelk, and Wavestrider-was beached on the shallow spit of land at the very root of the fjord. Amid a hubbub, a great number of Fjordsmen boarded, sixty or seventy to a boat, warriors all, each bearing arms and armor and a sea chest of clothing and other personal goods. These were raiders, and were bound upon a mission of revenge, yet would bear the Harlingar to the shores of the Land where lay the Vanadurin’s goal, ere sailing onward to extract a payment for a deed most foul done to them.

Supplies were loaded-mainly food and water. Yet, to the puzzlement of the Fjordsmen, each ship’s cargo included a small, disassembled waggon, as well as an extraordinary amount of sailcloth. Blocks and tackle were carried aboard, coils of rope, buckets and tools, and bundles and bags containing unknown stores, all borne here by Vanadurin packhorse. Lastly, Harlingar and horses were taken aboard, ten to a Dragonship-Elgo leading Shade up the ramp and down again, into the ship Longwyrm, with Ruric and Flint following after. There, too, were led sturdy tarpan ponies, two aboard each longboat, all the steeds gathered into ship’s center, separated one from the other by slender poles affixed thwartwise from wale to wale. These simple wooden-shaft stalls were common to the Dragonships, for the Fjordsmen oft’ used mounts when foraying inland from distant beaches across the water, and a total of forty horses and eight ponies spread among the four ships was not exceptional.

As each ship was laden to the full, crew and passengers alike, crowding the deck, moved to the stern, unweighting the bow, and amid groans and grunts and good-natured oaths, Men from the stad slid each ship backwards, shoving the prow off the spit and into the brine.

Finally, all four ships were afloat, ready to begin the voyage. And amid the cheering of the stadfolk ashore, Captains shouted orders and oars were manned; steerboards were pressed hard over as one side hauled fore whilst the other backed water, and the ships swung slowly about till their fierce carven visages pointed toward the distant curve of the fjord, aiming for the Boreal Sea beyond. Sails were unfurled, and each beitass set, the whisker poles trimming the square to catch what wind blew down in the sheltered fjord.

Then, majestically, in file, with Longwyrm leading and Surfbison trailing, amid the creak of oar in lock and the plash of blade in water, the four great Dragonships slid through the black bight and down to the sea.

And as they rounded the bend, young Reynor, filled near to bursting with the promise of the quest, raised his black-oxen horn to his lips and blew a blast that flew out to the sheer walls of the cleft and slapped back as if echoing peals from nearby companions. So too did all the Harlingar sound their horns, and they set the fjord to ringing with their fierce calls, until at last the ships came down through the ebon mouth of the inlet and out upon the darkling deep.

Day and night the four longboats raced across the surface of the great Boreal Sea, sails filled flush by the following winds, running like sleek Wolves upon the sapphire tides.

These four ships were the greatest of all the Fjordsmen’s Dragonboats, and never before had they plied the sea together. Yet ’twas young Reynor who had gathered this pack, riding through the harsh coastal winter to bring the Captains sailing to Skaldfjord that spring, with a payment of gold and a promise of more.

Too, the ships’ Captains seized upon a mission of their own, made possible by the gathering of these four great longboats:

Some ten years past, Atli, a warrior of Jute, had been the only Juten survivor of a battle at sea between the Fjordsmen and the Jutlanders. Atli had fought so skillfully that the Fjordsmen spared his life, taking him unto their bosoms as they would a brother, bearing him back to their stad. In the fjordside village, Atli was held in high esteem, for he wielded a war axe like none had e’er seen before, and he schooled others in this skill. But one night, in a drunken rage, Atli slew Olar, the son of the Elder. At his trial, Atli refused to pay or be bonded to the blood debt of a kin-slayer: two hundred ounces of silver. Outlawed, he was given the clothes on his back, his axe and shield, and four hours head start over Olar’s blood kith, who came after him ahorse. Yet somehow, afoot, Atli escaped the pursuit.

Two years later, a savage raid leveled the stad, for Atli had returned, bringing one hundred Jutlander warriors with him in two Dragonships. And they slew more of Olar’s kin-Man, Woman, child-without heed to age or sex or whether or no the victims fought or yielded. It was then that the Fjordsmen discovered that Atli was none other than a Prince of Jute.

For seven years the extended kith of Olar nursed their hatred of Atli, and news came that he was now King of Jute. And these tidings enraged them further still. But it was Reynor that drew them together, for his mission to secure the services of the four great Dragonboats spurred the Fjordclan to use this gathering as a means to slake their bloodthirst, for they would ride this fleet unto the very shores of Jute and extract a raging vengeance against Atli.

And these Dragonboats made it possible, for they were great enough to hold all the warriors of Olar’s kith, as well as Elgo’s Warband.

The Longwyrm was the greatest of the four, scaling one hundred and three feet in length, with twenty-five pairs of long, narrow-bladed spruce oars, trimmed to differing lengths so that they would all strike the water simultaneously in short choppy strokes.

Foamelk and Wavestrider were next in length, each measuring some ninety-six feet, each carrying twenty-two pairs of oars.

Surfbison was the least of the four: ninety-two feet long, with twenty pairs of oars.

Each of the ships was constructed with overlapping oaken strakes, giving the hull a serpentine flexibility that caused each craft to cleave sharply through the waters, yielding a nimbleness beyond that which its narrow keel-board alone would bestow.

And ’twas these hulls, shsshing through the water, that bore Elgo and his Harlingar toward their immutable destiny, and the Olarkith toward their unknown ends as well.

On the first day, some of the Vanadurin felt a bit queasy in the stomach, but they took their mind from it as they and their comrades busied themselves with the steeds and trappings, tending their mounts, currying, feeding grain, watering, clearing away their droppings, washing down the deck to eliminate the stench of urine, laughing all the while with the Fjordsmen about seagoing stable duty, speculating as to why the beasts couldn’t be trained to relieve themselves over the side like the rest of the passengers.

And they rubbed tallow into the leather traces, saddles, and straps.

Too, the Harlingar spent this time treating their weapons and armor ’gainst the spray, oiling the steel to ward off the brine.

The Fjordsmen, as well, readied their weapons of War, for the mission they fared upon was grim.

Elgo, filled with a restless energy, paced the length of the ship, back and forth, threading his way through warriors, speaking to his Men, checking the state of the horses and ponies, stopping now and again to watch the Fjordsmen bring the longboat to a new tack, haling the steerboard hard over, setting the beitass pole such that the scarlet sail made the most of the wind. But often, he would stand long moments in the bow, as if willing his sight to fly o’er the darkling waves and distant land and spy out the far goal. At other times he would stand in the stern near the steering oar, speaking quietly to Arik, Captain of the Longwyrm.

“Aye, Prince Elgo, we strike ’gainst the foemen in Jute.” Arik stroked his yellow beard. Yellow beard and yellow braids had the Captain of the Longwyrm, a large, powerful man in his mid-forties, dressed in light green jerkin and dark green breeks, grey boots, and a fleece vest. ’Round his head wrapped a black leather band, incised with silver runes. His eyes were grey, and set within the weathered features of a seafarer, features now cast with the grim look of an avenger. “’Tis a blood debt they owe, a judgement long o’erdue. Wi’ our axes and blades, we go to collect the weregield, the levy they did not pay of their own free will. But now we will see that they pay most dearly, in blood as well as gold.”

On this day, Arik, Elgo, and Ruric stood in the stern of the ship nigh the steersman. Several warriors lounged nearby.

“Aye, Arik,” growled Ruric, “collect what ye will. Just remember that we rendezvous on the second full Moon past Year’s Long Day.”

“Fear not, Old Wolf,” laughed Arik. “I’d not strand ’ee on Rian’s shore-” Arik broke off what he was about to say and shaded his eyes, peering southerly.

“Njal,” he barked, “quarter to the steerboard. Signal the others, too.”

The steersman called out orders, and the crew set to, resetting the whisker pole, trimming the sail as Njal hauled hard over on the steering oar.

One of the crew sounded a trump, to be answered by hornblowers on the other three ships, and they, too, quartered to the steerboard.

Arik pointed toward the south, and low on the horizon Elgo and Ruric could see what appeared to be great white talons clutching at the sky, marching out of the east and south and down to the sea.

“’Tis the Gronfangs.” Arik’s voice was grim. “Modru’s Claws. They reach down into the sea, passing from sight o’ Man, plunging into the cold depths. Know ’ee ought o’ them?”

“Some say the mountains stride ’neath the ocean on to the west,” Elgo responded, “islands standing where their peaks jut out of the water.”

“Aye,” answered Arik. “I’ve heard that. And indeed there are islands where the mountains would fall if they were to continue marching westward ’cross the floor o’ the abyss. Tall stone crags: the Seabanes.

“’Tis the Seabanes we veer away from. Dangerous waters. Cold and deadly. There it be that swirls the Maelstrom, haunted by dreadful Krakens lurking wi’in its twisting churn.”

“Krakens?” Fire sparkled in Elgo’s gaze, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

“Aye,” nodded Arik. “Hideous monsters, Prince. All ropy arms and clutching suckers. Glaring eyes, and a great claw beak. Strength beyond measure.”

“Dragons’ mates, they say,” added Ruric.

Arik scowled thoughtfully. “Dragons’ mates, aye. ’Tis said among my folk that at rare times down through the ages, Dragons gather ’pon yon headland.” Arik pointed at a distant mount, just now discernible on the horizon. “There be the Dragons’ Roost, last of the Gronfangs. Halfway down, its sheer sides fall plumb into the icy sea. But near the top ’tis said that Dragons’ lairs raddle its sides, and there are many ledges where lie the lovelorn Wyrms, awaiting the call of their mates from the sea. From that aerie ’tis said that a Man can peer down into the Maelstrom itself, though no Man I know ha’ e’er claimed that he stood there and looked. And a Man would be a fool to do so when the Drakes are about, for ’tis said that Dragons can sense when strangers intrude wi’in their demesnes.

“Be that as it may, the Drakes forgather, waiting, now and again raising their great brazen voices to bellow at the sky. And once in a great while, it seems, they do combat, one wi’ another, though ’tis said that for the most part they know who be strongest, and yield the higher places to them, the most powerful on the topmost ledge, and so on down to the least o’ them.”

“Why then,” spoke up young Reynor, who had been lounging upon the rail nearby, “Black Kalgalath must sit atop the highest perch.”

“He would at that,” responded Arik. “Then would come Ebonskaith and Skail-and Redclaw would be next. Then perhaps Sleeth the Orm, followed by Silverscale. Beyond that, ’tis anyone’s guess.”

At mention of Sleeth’s name, Elgo, Ruric, and Reynor glanced at one another, but said nought, and Arik did not seem to notice.

“They perch there and bellow: Fire-drake from Sun to Sun; Cold-drake at night,” Arik went on. “And then the legends say that in the darktide, one by one, Krakens come to their call, the greatest first, the least last, each burning wi’ the green glowing daemonfire o’ the deeps, spinning in the great roaring churn o’ the Maelstrom.” Arik’s voice dropped to an awed whisper. “And one by one the Drakes plunge into that fearsome spin, to be clutched in the grasping embrace o’ those hideous tentacles, each Dragon drawn under by a monstrous mate, lover and lover sucked into the whirling black abyss below, to spawn beyond the light o’ all knowledge.

“And later, somehow the Drakes return, bursting through the dark surface, struggling to wing up into the night air, and only the strongest survive.”

Arik’s voice fell silent as each Man thought upon his words. At last Reynor spoke: “Ah, Captain Arik, and what of the offspring. What is the result of this hideous mating ’tween Dragon and Kraken? What young do they bear?”

Arik gestured out over the ocean. “Why, Sea Serpents, lad, Sea-drakes, the Longwyrms o’ the oceans. How d’ee think our Folk came by the name Dragonboat, lad? From the Sea-drake, that be how.

“Up from the briny depths come the great serpents o’ the vasty deep. These are the children of that vile spawning: the Sea-drakes!”

“But then, Captain”-Reynor looked puzzled-“if nought but the serpents of the sea are the get of that breeding, whence come the Dragons themselves, or the Krakens for that matter?”

“Ah, lad, there is the mystery,” Arik responded, shrugging his shoulders. “’Tis said by those wise enough to know, that both Drakes and Krakes come from the water serpents.

“Look, lad, ha’e ’ee not seen the butterfly and the moth? Aye, they each spring from worms, worms that eat leaves till their gut is full enough, and then they spin a cocoon. And lo! from that cocoon comes a winged creature: moth or butterfly.

“’Tis the same wi’ the Sea-drakes, though cocoon or no, as to the which o’ it I cannot say. Still, ’tis told that after ages at sea the great serpents take themselves unto the unlit depths o’ the vast chasms below the waves. There they undergo a mighty metamorphosis. And just as some caterpillars become butterflies, whilst others become moths, well then too some serpents-the males, they say-become Dragons while others-the females-become Krakens.

“Or so say the wise.

“Aye, and I believe it! List: None ha’e e’er seen a clutch o’ Dragon eggs aland: they seem to lay them not. And none ha’e e’er seen a small young Drake: all seem full grown from the first. And none ha’e e’er seen a female Dragon: they all be males.

“And as to the Kraken, well, I cannot say as to what they may be, but the sages say that they are the Dragons’ mates.”

A dark mood fell upon the four as they stared over water at the far headland, dim in the distance. After a long while, Arik broke the silence: “Ah me. Dragon, Kraken, Sea Serpent, I don’t know the which o’ it, but I do know that many a ship ha’ been lost to something in those waters, be it Maelstrom or monster. None ha’e e’er lived to tell o’ it.”

Again the four fell silent, though Elgo, deep in thought, fingered the hilt of his sword.

“Ah, Prince Elgo,” Arik mused, “I see the fire gleam in yer eye at the mention o’ combat wi’ these vile spawn. But hearken to me: No Man, none, ha’e e’er slain a Kraken. Ne’er! Though ’tis said that many ha’e fallen afoul these dire creatures. Ai! And no Man ha’ e’er escaped the suck o’ the Maelstrom once caught in its grasp.

“Mark me! A Man would ha’e to be daft to take on either the Maelstrom or a Kraken. By Hèl! he might as soon hie down to Rian, to Blackstone, and challenge Sleeth himself!”

Suddenly, as if stricken by a thunderbolt, a stunned look came over Arik’s weathered features, and he stared agape, first at Elgo, then at Ruric; and of those twain, Ruric refused to meet Arik’s eye, though Elgo simply laughed. “Ai! Ye’d not be going there for that, would ’ee?” Arik’s voice held awe. “Ye’d not be thinkin’ o-”

“Captain Arik!” Words burst forth from quick Reynor, seeking to shunt aside this line of thought. “You say that none have escaped the Maelstrom, yet you forget Snorri, Borri’s son, and the Mystical Maid of the Maelstrom! He won free of the churn!” Reynor’s clear voice rose into the air, caroling the last verse of the bawdy ode:

Old Snorri in a cog

With his three-legged dog

Sailed off on the Boreal Sea.

And the Mystical Maid

At last was well laid,

So she set Snorri, Borri’s son, free.

“Har, lad!” whooped Arik, white teeth gleaming, “I’d forgotten about Snorri Long Haft. Yet I ween the Maelstrom he tangled wi’ is not the one at the Seabanes, though perhaps it spun just as hungrily.”

Reynor, Elgo, Ruric, all roared at Arik’s words, joined by the lusty peals of the Captain.

Wreathed in smiles, Arik said nothing more about the ominous threat to the south, nor did he say aught else of Sleeth the Orm, though occasionally he did glance shrewdly at Elgo and Ruric.

And the four longships clove through the icy water, the white-capped Gronfang Mountains ashore sliding up over the horizon, soon followed by the craggy Seabane Islands asea, slipping leftward in the distance to be lost at last over the horizon astern.

West sou’west raced the Dragonboats, past the end of the bleak Gronfangs, past the craggy Seabanes as well, and though they could not see it, past the long shore of the dreaded Realm named Gron.

Gron, where in days of eld Modru ruled. Yet at the end of the Ban War, that vile Wizard had fled unto the northern wastes. . or so it is said ’round the hearth when tales are told of the Great War between Adon and Gyphon.

Mighty was the struggle, with all of creation hanging in the balance. And in this conflict, Modru was Gyphon’s Lieutenant upon Mithgar; and he came within a hair’s breadth of total victory here upon the midworld, only to be defeated in the last gasp by a great unexpected stroke, a stroke set in motion by the Wee Folk of legend, or so claim the wise.

Yet those baleful days were some thousands of years apast; but even though Modru was fled, Gron remained a place of dread.

And to this day, Modru is spoken of in hushed tones, as if invoking his very name could somehow draw that wickedness back. And signs of warding are sketched in the air by many at mention of the vile being, or of his baneful Land.

And the Realm of Gron, beyond the horizon, was shunned by all but the Foul Folk: Rutcha, Drōkha, Ogrus, they lived there still, as did Vulgs and Guula and Hèlsteeds, and other creatures dire. Leaderless at this time of Mithgar, they were not a threat to the rule of the midworld; though upon occasion here and there, bands of the Spawn would raid through the night, pillaging and laying to waste those caught in their wrath. Yet all were banned from the light of day, suffering the Withering Death should they be caught in the clean glow of Adon’s Sun.

Even so, some sages feared that perhaps one day vile Modru would return to his cold Iron Tower in Gron to lead his vast minions in another assault upon the wide world. Others scoffed at this “nonsense,” for did not the Foul Folk suffer Adon’s Ban? Why, it would take a miracle or an astounding turn of events ere that would come to pass; and for now, Modru dwelt not in his tower in Gron, nor was he ever likely to again!

Past this dread Realm, past the Angle of Gron, shssshed the Fjordsmen’s Dragonships laden with their fair warriors, bearing the Olarkith as well as the Harlingar to other shores; for Raiders or Warband, each of their goals lay elsewhere from Modru’s ancient Realm.

Across the great water raced the longboats, now flying due west. One more day they fled thus, until Captain Arik signalled all, and they bore again southward.

And up across the horizon came the foreland where now it was the Rigga Mountains that plunged into the Boreal Sea, where Gron ended and Rian began. And toward this latter Land angled the hard-running Longwyrm, swiftly followed by the other three ships.

It was late foredark when at last the keels cut through the lapping surf and scraped onto the desolate shingle of a meager cove. Crewmen leapt overboard and splashed ashore, haling upon heavy lines to fairly ground the Dragonboats upon the empty strand. And none were there to greet these adventurers: Elgo’s Vanadurin Warband and Arik’s Fjordsmen Raiders.

Straightaway the fiery horses were unladen, prancing and nickering in their eagerness to feel the land. So too were the ponies debarked, little hooves clattering down the gangways and scrutching in the sand. Lastly came the waggons and other Harlingar supplies.

As they set up camp, they traded airs, the Fjordsmen canting sea chanteys, the Vanadurin rendering songs of the plains.

Fires were built from the nearby scrub to provide light and warmth, and heat for the cooking of a great, thick stew.

And as is the wont of young Men in all times and ages, they sat and spoke of many things as the darktide swept o’er the Land, of things remembered and things to be, and things worth living for, as well as those worth dying.

Yet though the Fjordsmen spoke often of their bloodquest ’gainst the distant Jutes, the Harlingar said nought of where they were bound. Instead they spoke of family and of past deeds of derring-do; and not a word of Blackstone or Sleeth or Dracongield passed any’s lips

Elgo talked much of his beauteous Arianne as well as his wee son, Bram, the tiny bairn but a suckling at his mother’s breast-yet already he had grasped the silver hilts of his bold sire’s black-handled sword. “. . liked to have wrenched the blade right from my very own grip.” Firelight danced in Elgo’s glittering eyes. “Ai, but he will be a mighty warrior once he reaches his years.”

At last their bellies were full and their eyes heavy and so they bedded down, all that is except for the Fjordsmen’s beachwatch, and the Harlingar wards of the horses, picketed in a nearby sward.

Early next morn, as the Vanadurin saddled their mounts, the Fjordsmen made ready to set sail. Arik, Elgo, and Ruric stood off away from the others, speaking in low voices.

“Aye, Prince Elgo”-Arik gazed westward o’er the cold sea-“’twill be a drawn-out raid into Jute. Yet two fortnights and a week past Year’s Long Day will find us back on this shore, give or take a day or three. We’ll wait a week or so, if necessary, then sail on should ’ee and yer Warband not be here.

“I’ll not say aught o’ what I’ve guessed o’ yer mission, but again I offer ’ee shares should ’ee sail wi’ me on our bloodraid, rather than set forth on this wild quest o’ yers.”

Elgo laughed and shook his head no. “A fair offer, Captain Arik, yet our scheme is not as jobbernowled as you deem.

“Eight weeks, then, and we will see your great Dragonboats upon this strand, and perhaps we’ll have something fitting to fill their bellies with.”

A fjord horn sounded, and Arik clasped Elgo’s and then Ruric’s grip with his own. “Remember though, Prince, ’tis said that Dracongield be cursed. I’d not like to fill my Longwyrm wi’ doomsgold.” With those ominous words echoing in Ruric’s like mind, Arik broached the surf and boarded his ship.

At his command, again the horn sounded, and the wading crews of each longboat hove the hulls aback, sliding the keels sternward off the sand; swiftly they clambered over the wales, and oars plashed into the waves to the beat of a timbrel.

The Harlingar watched their remote kinsmen back water, then come about, the crew of each ship setting the beitass pole to turn the sail into the wind, catching the braw breeze.

Slowly the Dragonboats gathered speed, till they fairly leapt o’er the waves, heading out of the cove and to the west.

Ruric barked a command, and all the Vanadurin mounted up. Elgo turned in his saddle and raised his black-oxen horn to his lips, sounding a farewell horncry to the distant Fjordsmen: Taaa-tan, tan-taaa, tan-taaa! [Till we meet again, fare you well, fare you well!] And so sounded all the horns of the Harlingar, to be faintly answered by the belling of Dragonboat horns afar.

Then the Vanadurin turned and set forth on a southerly course, moving at a measured pace, a long column of horses, with three pony-drawn waggons trundling in their midst, heavily laden with sailcloth, the bleak stone of the Rigga Mountains looming off to their left.

And so began the next stage of two quests conceived in the long winter nights, when the spectral werelight dances in the crystalline skies. . the ghostly light perhaps dancing as well in the minds and hearts of bold Men: Dragonboats racing to the west, seeking vengeance and bloodgield; Harlingar faring to the south, Dracongield and fame their goal.