“Would you like to rest?” one of the dwarves suggested. “Perhaps in your condition…?”
“Indeed,” she said, grateful for the excuse. She got up to leave. “Forgive me. I should go and lie down. We will meet again shortly before sunset.”
The clan leaders bowed and Balyndis walked through the throne room to the door. Her attention was otherwise engaged but she still noticed she was being stared at. Geroin Leadenring was looking at her with malice; he was the brother of Syndalis Leadenring, the king’s second wife. Glaimbar had rejected her in favor of Balyndis and this had aroused much ill-feeling.
Balyndis avoided the gaze and hurried through the corridors, past her own chambers and directly into the small forge where she was often to be found creating all manner of items in the little leisure time at her disposal. The furnace was always burning, fed from the Dragon Fire.
She cast the pages of the letter one by one onto the glowing coals, observing how they curled in the heat and caught, then turned to ash. The featherlight black flakes flew up the chimney and off, far over the peaks of the Gray Mountains and beyond.
Balyndis watched them go; she threw a shovelful of coal into the furnace and set the bellows to work. Soon white flames were dancing, sending out tremendous heat. She did not want these lines anywhere near her if they spoke of Tungdil’s death. She needed nothing to remind her of him or of his heroic deeds.
The finest remembrance he could have left her with she carried beneath her heart. All the fifthlings presumed the child was Glaimbar’s.
They should continue to think so.
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Near the Tunnel,
Winter, 6241st Solar Cycle
I t was early afternoon but it looked as if night had fallen. A winter storm covered the western part of Weyurn, bringing icy rain and the first flakes of snow.
Algin saw the foresail belly out dangerously with the storm wind which was chasing the little fishing boat over the crests of the waves. They were traveling so fast that the man was afraid the hull would lift clean out of the water. “Take it down,” he yelled to his friend Retar the helmsman, pointing at the threatened wind-filled canvas.
“No-if we do that the lake will get us,” he shouted back against the roar of the storm.
“If that sail rips we’re done for.” Algin staggered across the rearing deck and with cold wet fingers tried to undo the knots to drop the topsail. That would be simpler than furling the canvas. “We must head back to harbor.”
“One more buoy,” Retar called, holding fast to the tiller. “The net at the old sandbank must be full to bursting. This storm will have fair driven the fish in for us.”
Algin hesitated. Their catch so far had been poor for a whole orbit’s fishing. Elria must have guided the shoals out to the very depths of the lake. “All right, then,” he agreed, taking his hand from the rope. Retar grinned and set the course.
That was when the fisherman noticed the cavernous hole in the cliff, opening like the circular gullet of a huge worm. It measured a good ten paces in diameter and was one third under water.
He jabbed Retar with his elbow to show him. “Take a look at that!” he yelled. “Now I know why the lake water is disappearing out from under our keel. That tunnel must lead straight to the Red Mountains.”
Retar stared at it. “What do the dwarves want with all our water?” He was furious. “I don’t get it. Why are they digging…?”
Both of them saw a monstrous shape fill the entrance. An extended neck with an elongated skull was slowly emerging and the nostrils flared at the front of the slim muzzle. The creature was testing the air for scents. Its dark green skin was covered in shimmering damp scales.
“Elria!” ejaculated Algin. “What on earth…?”
The monster looked their way, drew in a huge breath and raised its head, its eyes blazing red. Steam shot from its nose.
Retar swore and swung the helm around. The buoy he’d been so keen to reach was bobbing on the surface by the creature’s feet. He abandoned all thoughts of it.
“It’s… a dragon,” stammered Algin. “By Elria! It’s exactly like the ones in the stories.” Fascinated, he watched the creature launch itself gracefully into the water.
Its broad shadowy shape was approaching them now, just under the surface, and moving fast, faster than any fish they’d ever seen. The nearer it got, the better able they were to judge its size: from head to tail-tip fifty paces at least, they thought, and ten wide.
“Hard to port! By all the gods, hard to port!” he screamed at Retar, the fear of death in him. “Quick! It’s going to ram us.”
The dragon ducked down under their boat and disappeared.
“It’s dived! It’s spared us.”
“Who’s going to believe that?” croaked Retar.
“There’s been so much happening in Girdlegard, they’ll have to take our word for it.” Algin looked at the gaping hole in the cliff. “We must let Queen Wey know about the tunnel and the dragon right away.” He was not certain whether dwarves or dragons were responsible for digging the tunnel. “To think that one of these creatures has come back after so long. The sagas speak of dragons as being cruel and clever. What does it want here?”
“I don’t care. I’ll be offering ten of my best fish to the goddess for saving me and my boat,” a pale-faced Retar muttered. “For her protection…”
Algin observed the waters beneath their craft filling with light. Their boat was suddenly enveloped in a curtain of blood-red fire. Flames shot around the gunwales three paces high; the heat was intolerable. Algin and Retar screamed in helpless panic. To jump overboard was certain death.
All at once flames burst up through the hull, enrobing mast, sails and men, and incinerating flesh, skin and bone. Not a smudge of ash remained.
The boat broke apart. The blackened pieces of the wreck tossed on the waves and were driven off by the current.
Nothing would be found.
No trace of Algin, of Retar, of their boat…
Nor of any dragon.