Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Foreword
CHAPTER 1 - A Dragon Comes Winging
CHAPTER 2 - Assault in the Khalian Mire
CHAPTER 3 - Skaldfjord
CHAPTER 4 - The Testing
CHAPTER 5 - Blackstone
CHAPTER 6 - Enemy of My Enemy, Enemy of Mine
CHAPTER 7 - Wolves upon the Sea
CHAPTER 8 - Words of the Bard
CHAPTER 9 - Warrior Maid
CHAPTER 10 - Blooded
CHAPTER 11 - Crimson Sky
CHAPTER 12 - Sleeth the Orm
CHAPTER 13 - Quarry
CHAPTER 14 - Orm’s Lair
CHAPTER 15 - Wolfwood
CHAPTER 16 - Dracongield
CHAPTER 17 - The Homecoming
CHAPTER 18 - Black Kalgalath
CHAPTER 19 - The Claim
CHAPTER 20 - The Purse
CHAPTER 21 - Retribution
CHAPTER 22 - The Mustering
CHAPTER 23 - Lost Trump
CHAPTER 24 - Before the Gate
CHAPTER 25 - A Dragon Wakes
CHAPTER 26 - The Long Trek East
CHAPTER 27 - The Taking of the Trove
CHAPTER 28 - Master and Apprentice
CHAPTER 29 - A Voice in the Storm
CHAPTER 30 - Sanctuary
CHAPTER 31 - Black Mountain
CHAPTER 32 - The Quest of Black Mountain: Elyn
CHAPTER 33 - The Quest of Black Mountain: Thork
CHAPTER 34 - The Bargain
CHAPTER 35 - The Black Spire
CHAPTER 36 - Tower of Darkness
CHAPTER 37 - Flight
CHAPTER 38 - The Retreat
CHAPTER 39 - Knells in the Stone
CHAPTER 40 - In the Shadows of Giants
CHAPTER 41 - Dragonslair
CHAPTER 42 - Echoes of Power
CHAPTER 43 - Utruni
CHAPTER 44 - Vengeance
CHAPTER 45 - Promises Kept
CHAPTER 46 - Red Hawk
EPILOGUES
A PARTIAL CALENDAR OF MITHGARIAN EVENTS
TRANSLATIONS OF WORDS AND PHRASES
GLOSSARY
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A DRAGON COMES
Sleeth’s great yellow eyes slid open; behind crystalline membranes, long slitted pupils expanded wide in the ebon darkness. His great forked tongue flicked in and out, tasting the blackness of the cavern: Empty. Dire spume dripped from wicked fangs, and where it struck, froth sizzled and popped, and rock dissolved. Sleeth’s juices ran high, for he was ravenously hungry, yet this night he would not seek to fill his belly: he was after other prey.
Slithering out from the den, Sleeth crossed the wide foreledge, fetching up against its precipitous lip. Stone fell sheer before him, plummeting down into the black depths far below. Silvery moonlight streamed through black pinnacles behind, pale beams splashing iridescently upon lapping scales—armored hide, virtually indestructible. Great muscles rippled and bunched, and with a roar that struck and clapped among the frozen crags, Sleeth leapt into the air, vast leathery pinions beating upward into the crystal sky, climbing toward the stars.
Circling, spiraling, up and up he flew, till he was high above the clawing peaks. And then he arrowed westward, into the angle of Gron, wings hammering across the night.
’Ware, Folk of Mithgar, a Dragon comes.
The Saga of Mithgar by Dennis L. McKiernan
The Dragonstone
Voyage of the Fox Rider
Into the Fire
Into the Forge
Dragondoom
Tales of Mithgar
The Iron Tower
The Silver Call
Eye of the Hunter
Silver Wolf, Black Falcon
Other Novels by Dennis L. McKiernan
Caverns of Socrates
Once Upon a Winter’s Night
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
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Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, May 2002
Copyright © Dennis L. McKiernan, 1990, 2002 All rights reserved
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To my two sons:
Daniel Kian McKiernan,
and
Patrick Shannon McKiernan,
who do not appear in this tale
FOREWORD ANEW
Dragondoom was a rather difficult story for me to structure. Oh, I knew the story I wanted to tell, but in the beginning I didn’t quite know how I could tell it such that the reader would know that it was really Elyn’s story—hers and Thork’s. You see, if I told it in a “linear” fashion, I was afraid that the reader would get focused on the wrong person as being the protagonist in the tale.
I was bothered. . . .
Very bothered . . .
With me still struggling with the structure, my wife and I took a motorcycle trip, riding from Ohio (where we lived at the time) to Colorado and beyond. It was while we were cruising through the Rockies that of a sudden I realized how to tell this tale. “I’ve got it!” I shouted through the intercom, as I pulled onto the shoulder of the twisting mountain road.
Her ears ringing, her heart pounding (with that whoop, she thought doom was about to strike), my wife asked, “Got what?”
“The solution as to how to tell the story.”
“Oh, that.”
From the rear luggage case Martha Lee retrieved the notebook I always carry, and I wrote a note to me telling me that I simply had to drag a chapter out from the middle of the book and shove it up front (it became chapter two). That done, we took off once more.
About a hundred yards later, I pulled over to the shoulder again (I didn’t shout this time). I wrote myself another note.
Another hundred yards, another note.
I must have written twenty notes to myself over the next mile or so.
Martha Lee popped on and off the bike like Jill-in-the-box, she fetching my notebook while I kept the bike from rolling backward down the mountainside.
But at the end of that mile I ha
d the interleaving structure that would let me tell the tale such that there would be no doubt just whose story this was.
And so I did.
—Write it that way, I mean.
I finished it in September, 1988, one of the years of the Dragon.
It became the favorite of many people.
“Used bookstores, book-finding services, huckster tables at SF conventions, web searches, on-line auctions, public libraries if someone hasn’t stolen it,” was all I could reply.
It has taken awhile to get Dragondoom back into print, and I thank my current publisher and editor for doing so.
For those of you who are reading the tale for the very first time, I hope it becomes a favorite of yours; and for those who are reading it again, welcome once more to the story of Elyn and Thork.
—Dennis L. McKiernan
June 20001
NOTES
The source of this tale is a tattered, partially burned copy of Commentaries on the Lays of Bard Estor, an incredibly fortunate find dating from the time before The Separation. Compiled by an anonymous scholar, the titles of each of Estor’s lays is recorded, then augmented with historical accounts of the events surrounding the legends depicted in the bard’s work. Unfortunately, the music itself is missing, as well as the exact lyrics, though internal references at times quote specific passages therein. It is clear that Estor gained fame by singing of Elgo and Elyn and Thork, and of Sleeth and Black Kalgalath.
There are many instances in this tale where, in the press of the moment, the Dwarves, Humans, and others spoke in their own native tongues; yet, to avoid the awkwardness of burdensome translations, where necessary I have rendered their words in Pellarion, the Common Tongue of Mithgar. However, some words do not lend themselves to translation, and these I’ve left unchanged; yet other words may look to be in error, but are indeed correct—e.g., DelfLord is but a single word though a capital L nestles among its letters. Also note that waggon, traveller, and several other similar words are written in the Pendwyrian form of Pellarion and are not misspelled.
From my study of The Commentaries, the archaic tongue of the Utruni is similar in construction to archaic Pellarion, but with an Anglo smack to it. I have attempted to render this language into one that imparts the flavor without ruining its taste to the tongue.
In the main, this tale is about Elyn of Jord. Yet her story is so tightly entwined with those of the Dragons, Wizards, Dwarves, and Men, that to properly tell it, I deliberately moved back and forth in time: Chapters labeled [The Present ] indicate the story of Elyn’s and Thork’s Quest for the Kammerling, as well as its aftermath; chapters labeled [This Year] indicate events occurring in the same year as the Quest, typically weeks or months previous, although in some cases the events occur at the same time as the Quest; the time labels on the other chapters are likewise referenced to the Quest.
In addition, because the Commentaries on the Lays of Bard Estor had been partially burned, when originally writing Dragondoom I made assumptions about the Sundering which have since proved erroneous: 1) I assumed that Mages came from Adonar when in fact they come from the Mageworld of Vadaria; 2) I assumed that the Draega had been stranded on Mithgar because of the Sundering, but have since discovered that to be in error as well; and, 3) I found the full of the Kammerling Rede (see Silver Wolf, Black Falcon), and learned of a flaw in this tale concerning the final war. In this revised version of Dragondoom I have corrected these faults, and I apologize to my readers for the previous inaccuracies. I shall take greater pains in the future to avoid such mistakes where possible. Yet because my primary sources are so meager, I cannot but help in places in this tale (as in all others) filling in the gaps with assumptions; in the main, however, the tale is true to its root material.
Finally, there are various historical events referred to in this story. For those interested in more detail, I refer you to the works listed in the front of this book.
“Tell me, my son, what is the color of the Dragon?” “Crimson, Master, ever crimson, no matter what sees the eye.”
CHAPTER 1
A Dragon Comes Winging
Year’s Long Night, 3E8
[Centuries Past]
Sleeth’s great yellow eyes slid open; behind crystalline membranes, long slitted pupils expanded wide in the ebon darkness. His great forked tongue flicked in and out, tasting the blackness of the cavern: Empty. Dire spume dripped from wicked fangs, and where it struck, froth sizzled and popped, and rock dissolved. Sleeth’s juices ran high, for he was ravenously hungry, yet this night he would not seek to fill his belly: he was after other prey.
Heaving his great bulk upward, Sleeth ponderously slid forward, long claws grasping stone, powerful legs propelling him toward the exit from the lair. Faint light shone ’round the bend before him, and Sleeth approached it with caution even though he knew that the glimmer came from Moon and stars, for Sleeth suffered the Ban, and to step into sunlight was to step unto Death.
Year’s Long Night had fallen, and Sleeth pressed his snout out into the clear, frigid, winter air. Around him, the ice-clad peaks of the bleak Gronfangs stabbed upward, as if trying to impale the glittering stars upon the jagged mountain crests. Sleeth glanced at the spangle above: night was but an hour old—more than enough time remained.
Slithering out from the den, Sleeth crossed the wide foreledge, fetching up against its precipitous lip. Stone fell sheer before him, plummeting down into the black depths far below. Silvery moonlight streamed through black pinnacles behind, pale beams splashing iridescently upon lapping scales—armored hide, virtually indestructible. Great muscles rippled and bunched, and with a roar that struck and clapped among the frozen crags, Sleeth leapt into the air, vast leathery pinions beating upward into the crystal sky, climbing toward the stars.
Circling, spiralling, up and up he flew, till he was high above the clawing peaks. And then he arrowed westward, into the angle of Gron, wings hammering across the night.
’Ware, Folk of Mithgar, a Dragon comes.
CHAPTER 2
Assault in the Khalian Mire
Late Summer, 3E1602
[The Present]
Again the panic-stricken squeal of a terrified steed rang out, filling the sudden silence, yet the tall, thickset marsh reeds blocked Elyn’s view, and she could not see more than a few feet ahead. Too, her vision was hampered by long shadows cast by the setting Sun. She was still some unknown distance from the far edge of the Khalian Mire, and had no time for distractions; for this was a place of dire repute, and she needed to be beyond the eastern marge ere full darkness fell, else she would be stranded here within these malevolent environs. Yet this sounded like a horseling in distress, and she was Vanadurin.
Gripping the saber she had instinctively drawn at the sound of the scream, Elyn leaned forward, ducking below long grey strands of a foul moss adrip from the lifeless branches of a nearby dead cypress that twisted up out of the clutching mire. “Hup, Wind,” she whispered to the mare, lightly touching her heels to the grey’s flanks, gently urging the mount ahead. And in the marsh about her, all the chirruping and neeking and breeking had stopped, as if the startled dwellers waited with bated breath to see what terror was afoot. Only the incessant cloud of gnats and mosquitoes and biting flies that swarmed about her head and shoulders seemed unaffected, their blood-hunger now and then driving one or two out from the horde and in through the pungent fumes of the gyllsweed to land biting on her or the horse. These Elyn managed to ignore as, fully alert, her attention was locked ahead.
Slowly the grey stepped forward, and again the terrified squeal sounded, and Wind could not suppress a gentle Whuff !
Now the reeds began to thin, and from the fore came the slosh of an animal thrashing in a quag. Too, there came “Kruk! Dök, praug, d
ök!”—the sound of a gravelly voice venting oaths.
Gradually the rushes thinned, and Elyn found herself on the edge of a small slough, perhaps thirty feet across. And there near the center floundered a terror-stricken pony; and behind, mired up to his chest, struggling and cursing—Elyn’s eyes narrowed in a sudden rush of hatred—thrashed a Dwarf!
As Wind stepped forth from the reeds, suddenly the pony stopped its struggling. The Dwarf looked up, and his gaze locked with Elyn’s, his eyes narrowing—just as hers had—at the sight of this tall, fair, leather-clad, steel-helmed, green-eyed, copper-haired Woman!
Steadily the twilight deepened. Long, tense moments fled as they stared in loathing at one another, neither saying a word.
Should I, can I, rescue one of Them? Elyn’s emotions churned, her mind in a turmoil. But as her hand strayed toward the rope at her saddle—
“Think not to help me, Woman, for I’d sooner sink down through this quaghole to Neddra itself, than to be aided by a Rider.” In his mouth the words Woman and Rider sounded as oaths, and hostility glared forth from the Dwarf’s shadowed eyes, his gaze still locked with hers.
Sheathing her saber, Elyn flicked Wind’s reins, turning to go. Faugh! I was a fool to have ever considered saving a Dwarf in the first place. But just as the mare started fetching about, the pony began to thrash again, grunting, snorting, eyes rolling in terror. Grinding her teeth, Elyn swung Wind back once more, loosening the rope as she did so. “I cannot let a steed die by my neglect, Dwarf; I am Vanadurin.” Now it was Elyn whose mouth formed an oath, as she spoke the word Dwarf.
Fashioning a noose, Elyn cast the loop toward the pony’s head, but missed as the panic-stricken horseling thrashed back and forth. Elyn drew in the rope and cast again, this time landing fair ’round the struggling pony’s head, only to be thrown off by the steed’s wild tossings.