THE FIRE HOSTAGE
(Part 2)
(read Part 1 here)
The
stench of death hung heavily about the entrance to the dragon’s lair. Above
that cheerless pit it lingered, the odor of a thousand rotting things; smoldering
brimstone, blood, and ordure, failed courage, sorrow, and despair.
“Not far now!” the dwarf led on like an impatient
waif, taper in hand as he scurried through a warren of narrow-winding tunnels, the
most capacious scarcely broad enough to admit a child, save a man full-grown. “Make
haste!”
“So eager to meet your doom?” Ducking low, his back to
the wall, Garin expelled the breath from his chest, barely able even then to
squeeze beyond a treacherous restriction.
“Nay! Zvergrotz will surely live!” The dwarf’s voice
echoed dully in the gloom. “As richly as a landed lord when once the treasure’s
mine.”
At last the way widened before them, for they had
reached a cavern deep within the earth, where, long ages past, the hands of men
had hewn a city from the living rock. Through high-vaulted corridors they
passed, great halls of carvéd block and gravéd stone, so vast that one might
wander for many days without ever coming to the end.
Yet, even now, the path was not without its perils.
For, here and there at intervals along the passageway, flickeringly illumed
from dreary fires far beyond, dust-smoking heaps of human bone loomed up like
morbid mountains, disgorged from glutted catacombs through buckled fissures in
the walls; obstacles impassable, compelling rashly-improvised retreats through
lightless galleries where only skittering rodent hosts remained to rule the
gloom. Their red eyes peeked out covetously from amongst the rubble, precarious
mounds of shattered masonry where, from time to time, an interloper might espy
the detail of a pallid human face, shards of statues toppled from upended
plinths, once-proud features immortalized in marble now fractured into
voiceless infamy.
Presently through the branching halls there came a
sound like the lonesome keening of the wind, desolate in its melancholy rise
and fall.
“The serpent wakes.” Zvergrotz ran to cower at Garin’s
back. “Have a care lest we be roasted alive!”
“Which way then?” The hero drew his sword.
“It matters not.” The little man blubbered in fear
as flame leapt from a hundred hearths throughout the city. “Doom comes for us
anon!” And surely it was true, for the fire spilled forth in a great torrent
before them.
“In time,” said Garin, withdrawing into an alcove
along the wall, whence the flames scorched neither man nor dwarf. “But not this
day.” The niche into which they had retreated was itself a disused antechamber.
Beyond this stretched a curving thoroughfare, a spiral ramp leading still
further into the depths.
“S’blood!” The dwarf held his nose, for the vile
stench of ordure waxed more keenly the further they descended.
“Ah!” The hero brightened at a thought. “Mayhap
we’ll yet outwit the beast!” So saying, he bade the dwarf climb upon his back.
Thus, like a steed with his rider, far and fiercely did bold Garin hasten, and
for a while until, at last, he came to the place where the monster held its
solitary sway, keeping drowsy watch o’er all its vast ill-gotten hoard.
And what a treasure it was! As far as the eye could
behold it lay in such extravagant profusion as might seduce the noblest mind:
bricks of gold in gleaming heaps, plate of silver piled high, and gem-encrusted
drinking horns, gilt armor, scabbards, helms, and swords with jeweled hilts;
even noble crowns, purloined from the heads of kings and princes, scattered
carelessly about the floor like the cast-off trifles of a spoiled child. Beyond
these, coin of every weight and value spilt forth from ancient yawning chests,
more than the greediest of men might dream to covet.
Yet all that shone was not fair or wondrous, for
here and there amongst that vast surfeit of wealth, jutting up above the
glittering peaks, enormous skeletons might be beheld, the hulking remains of
mighty monsters, spines like gargantuan tree trunks, and broken ribcages like
the frames of houses, ravaged and burned, limbs twisted and broken, sharp and
deadly as a phalanx of spears.
And in the very midst of it all, a towering massif
thrust up amongst those grisly hills, the dragon itself, still half aslumber,
coiled jealously around the spoils it favored most. Perpetually bereft of
light, its flesh shone with a ghostly gray pallor, appearing to glow in the
subterranean gloom. Its sides were as battered shield walls, scales singed and
blackened by a hundred battles. Its claws were each the size of a heavy
broadsword, and twice as deadly; its legs, short and stout as gnarled roots,
but powerful and swift. Most terrible of all, its hingeless, wormlike jaw, a
yawning pit of death, edges studded with row upon row of venomous fangs.
Garin could only marvel at the sight, for he had
never stalked so fearsome a beast before. “Wait here,” said he, “for I shall steal
around behind ere the curséd creature stirs.” So saying, he took his leave of
the dwarf and made his way, half-crouched among the shimmering mounds of booty.
Thus, creeping forward with artful stealth, would he surprise the serpemt in
its wakeful torpor. And, sure enough, at last he stood within a hand’s breadth
of the monster’s side.
But ere he raised his sword to strike, there rose a
great commotion in the hall.
“Halloo!”
The dwarf stood atop a heap of treasure as he called out loudly to the beast.
“See what Zvergrotz has delivered just as he promised?”
The
monster yawned by way of answer, sending a voluminous ring of smoke into the
air. Garin scrambled to keep out of sight as the dragon stirred.
“Remember
the bargain that was struck between us!” Zvergrotz demanded. “Have I not kept
my part in full with this offering? Ah! See what a fine morsel he will make!”
The
dragon spewed forth a bolt of fire that lit the cavern all about, the light
redoubled in the shimmering mirrors of yellow gold and pale silver littering
the floor. Yet the monster itself was quite blind, responding in no way to the
sudden brightness.
“And
you shall keep your word as well,” cried the dwarf, though his voice quavered
now with doubt and trepidation. “As much as Zvergrotz can carry in payment for
this feast. Be we yet agreed?”
The
serpent roared as if in ascent, whipping its tail about like a mighty flail with
which to send the interloper to his doom.
But
even now, having lost the element of surprise, the youth kept his wits about
him. Thus with bold alacrity, he leapt upon the dragon’s back, whence the beast
thrashed about wildly, determined to be rid of its tormentor. Yet the more
furiously it struggled, the more adamantly the hero held fast, keeping his grip
with one hand, while, with the other, weilding his enchanted sword, biding his
time to strike.
At
last, the daring hero plunged his blade through the back of the serpent’s
throat, bracing himself for what he knew must follow. In fury did the beast
rear up, vomiting fire from its gullet, though grue-ish ichor followed soon
enough. Yet still, not altogether vanquished, the dragon charged forward at an
ungainly gallop, smelling at the air as it cast about with its head, determined
in its blind agony to be avenged upon the trespasser.
Thrice
more did the hero strike, and thrice more did he wound the beast, though its
ferocity was not abated in the least. At last, Garin rose to his feet, riding
the serpent’s back as one might bestride the heaving deck of a ship at sea.
Thus, clutching the hilt in both hands, the youth stabbed downward with all his
might, striking so forceful a blow as to rend the monster in twain, cleaving
head from shoulder with a single fearsome stroke. A river of gore flowed forth
from the stump of its neck even as the carcass juddered in the final throes of
death. But ere the curséd head did strike the ground, a roar of despair escaped
its broken maw like the tolling of a broken bell above a sepulcher.
Then
Garin saw that some of the dragon’s blood had spilled upon him in the fray, and
now lay spattered o’er his face and hands. Unthinking, the lad licked the blood
from his lips and fingers. Yet, no sooner had the blood been tasted upon his
tongue, then he heard a strange voice resounding in his mind:
How now shall I slay him? But not
too soon, for who else will help carry the treasure from this place? Curse that
foolish beast!
In
a moment, Garin came to understand that it was the dwarf’s own thoughts he was
hearing.
I suppose I’ll have to do it
myself. Once the treasure’s been removed, and he is weary from his labors, after
he settles down to rest… Yes! I’ll creep
up to the place where he sleeps and plunge a dagger deep into his heart… Only
for now, let him believe all’s well…
“A
silver pffenig for your thoughts,” Garin said slyly. “What’s to become of all
these riches now that their guardian is gone?”
“It’s
ours at last!” Zvergrotz turned about to face the hero, feigning innocence,
dancing and skipping about like a merry child, though his thoughts remained as
dark as the pit about them. “The treasure is ours!”
“Ours?”
Garin spoke coldly.
“Aye,”
cried the dwarf. “Plenty to go around…” Especially
once I’ve slain you in your sleep…
“So
much wealth,” said Garin. “You wouldn’t be tempted to betray me?”
“What’s
this? Nay! Zvergrotz is a dwarf of his word!”
“Indeed?
You’re not tempted even a little? Not thinking of burying a dagger in my
heart?”
“Zvergrotz
would never…” The dwarf affected outrage. “Zvergrotz is noble! Zvergrotz is
loyal to a fault, and ever generous… See?” He tossed a handful of silver coins
in Garin’s direction. “Let the gods bear witness to my munificence!”
“Verily.”
Garin approached the faithless halfling, wading
hip-deep through a lake of blood and steaming viscera. “Let me likewise
be generous and dispatch you quickly.”
“Mercy!”
cried the dwarf. “Spare poor Zvergrotz his life!”
“And
what should I have in return?”
“My
gratitude and… half the treasure?”
“When
you had already sold me to the serpent, just as you once sold me to the ogre?
Surely so noble a life is worth more than such a pittance?”
“I
beg you, son of Lotharing,” the dwarf croaked piteously, “pray, stay your hand!
Zvergrotz will be as good as his word!”
“How
well I know the worth of your word,” said Garin, still coming on, sword drawn
and ready.
“Nay!”
Zvergrotz began to pelt the hero with whatever missile came most easily to hand;
volleys of gold and silver coin, the merest handful a fortune; sacks and purses
groaning with jewels and precious stones, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls, gilt
trinkets, chains, and baubles, flung with ruthless desperation in some vain
hope that his doom might be delayed.
“Cease,
feckless fool!” Garin cried. “Today your pathetic destiny is decided. This
cavern has become your tomb, and so shall it be, both now and forever more.”
“Keep
away!” Zvergrotz shrieked in terror. But as he endeavored to flee in the face
of the hero’s relentless advance, the dwarf tripped and fell. The heap of
treasure on which he had made his stand suddenly gave way, collapsing in a
treacherous landslide, carrying the little man headfirst towards the bottom. “No!”
he cried, “Surely this cannot be my fate! Surely Zvergrotz will—” But his words
were stopped in his mouth, and in their place a trickle of blood spurted from between
his lips, for the dwarf’s body had been impaled on one of the sharp bone pikes
half hidden like a hunter’s snare amongst the dragon’s shimmering hoard. He
lay, gasping and panting, his eyes bulging in disbelief as his fate dawned upon
him.
And
now the rats came swarming, drawn by the odor of looming death, hungry,
ravenous things, they descended upon the little man, and the last sounds Garin
heard ere he turned away were the wordless screams of that craven soul being devoured
alive.
Thanks for nothing, little man,
Garin thought as he turned his back upon the dwarf, making his way as best he
could, holding the enchanted sword before him like a glowing lantern in the
gloom. Moving cautiously along, he cocked his ears, listening for the telltale
sounds of wind or water, some sign that might forebode escape. At last, he
heard the roar and rush of an underground river somewhere far away. But before
he could reconoiter the pathway ahead, he found himself falling, a portion of
the floor having given way beneath his feet. He plummeted like a stone into the
darkness below until, at last, after what seemed a fall of many leagues, he
came down, splashing and spluttering in the icy churning waters, still clutching
the hilt of his sword. The fast-moving stream bore him along through narrow
tunnels and yawning caverns turned to lakes, roofs open to the starlight far
above, and yet again into the blackness, down rocky chutes and over plunging
cataracts, his limbs bruised and sore.
In
time the river carried him out into the world. Washed clean in the flood, the
hero stood upon a stony bank and turned his eyes again to the east. The strange
light still shone upon the moutainside, and there, bold Garin knew, his destiny
awaited.
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