Chapter 21

The dragonfear that swept over Ayshe struck him like a physical blow and knocked him from his feet. His head struck the black stone, and, for a few moments, he lost consciousness. When he found his footing again, the scene before him seemed unchanged. The Great White Wyrm was crouched in the middle of the valley. It was less than a quarter mile away, and at that distance, the force of its aura was hideously powerful.

The elves seemed less affected by it than Ayshe. Harfang, too, stood straight and proud, showing no-signs of any fear caused by the creature.

The tableau held for a moment. Then with a great cry, Tashara launched herself, running down the slope toward the wyrm.

The beast turned its head and stared at her but made no move. To the dwarf it looked almost as if the dragon were waiting for her.

The creature’s mane swept back from her head, the serpents in it writhing, hissing, and spitting in fury. There in the valley of its lair, its outline and features were terribly clear. Its claws were long, cruel, and curved. The points glistened in the rising sun. Its tail swept back and forth, stirring the snow on the valley floor to a froth and sending clouds of spume into the air, clouds that glistened and sparkled, twisting the light in a thousand different ways.

Tashara held her sword high and the rising sun, shining through a break in the clouds, made it gleam silver. The rays caught her shield and breastplate, and she seemed, for a moment, a figure of white fire.

The creature lifted its great bat wings. They spread across the valley. It beat them, and the force of the wind hurled the fighters of Dragonsbane like chaff before a thresher’s flail. Tashara alone remained on her feet.

The White Wyrm rose above the valley floor, its reptilian visage twisting in hatred at the mortal who was hunting it. The wind of its wings stirred snow into a mist, drawing it up into whirling eddies that obscured Tashara for a moment. Then the wyrm dropped, claws outstretched.

The elf woman leaped back, high and nimble. Her sword swept down, aimed at the wyrm’s claws, which were outstretched to rend her. The sound of the blow raced across the valley as Tashara’s blade struck. The wyrm gave a horrid shriek, and one of its claws fell.

The watching elves gave a shout of approval. Tashara did not stop, but leaped and spun, slashing at the wyrm. Her body, honed as a perfect fighting machine, bent and swayed with each movement of the dragon. The beast struck at her again and again, and each time she dodged. The wyrm’s claws made great rents in the snow. Tashara swung her blade again, and another claw fell, lying in the snow like a glittering jewel. The wyrm screamed and backed across the valley, and the captain of the Starfinder pursued her.

But the retreat was only a feint. As Tashara came on, the wyrm struck again, with her breath instead of her claws. A cone of freezing cold surged toward the captain of the Starfinder. She sprang aside only just in time, almost dropping her shield. Mired in snow, she slipped.

“Tashara!” Malshaunt cried, leaping down the slope toward the combat. The other elves of Dragonsbane joined him in a mad race toward their captain. Harfang, cannier than the rest, brought up the rear, circling round, trying to get behind the wyrm. The others, impelled by loyalty to their captain and their cause, gave no thought to such strategy. All their long training seemed to fall away from them as they charged straight at the wyrm that had so long eluded them.

Ayshe, too, lifted his axe and ran down the steep slope, struggling to keep his footing. He found, somewhat to his surprise, his fear had abated. His entire soul was consumed with a passion to kill the storm dragon. The faces of Chaval and Zininia rose before him as they had so often done, but the mouths of his old friends were open in cries of encouragement, their eyes gleaming with pride as they hailed him as their avenger.

The wyrm’s head snapped up, and Tashara took the opportunity. to regain her feet. She slashed again at the creature but missed. The wyrm swung her head about and stared balefully at the charging elves. It reared its head, gave a cry, and took to the air. The wind from its wings beat hard against the elves, but they managed, for the most part, to keep their feet.

Tashara turned and sensed the approaching elves. Her expression changed to fury. “Stay back!” she shouted. “Did I not say this is my fight alone?”

The elves hesitated—all but Malshaunt. The mage’s hands were already contorted in a spell. A fireball leaped from his fingers, striking toward the wyrm.

The wyrm lifted its head. A bolt of lightning leaped from the peak of the red mountain and plunged onto the floor of the valley. It met Malshaunt’s fireball and divided it, shattering it into a thousand pieces that fell to the valley floor and hissed into the snow. The sides of the surrounding mountains turned red from the blast.

Without hesitation, Malshaunt hurled another missile. The White Wyrm dodged, and the fireball arced beyond it, crashing into the side of the mountain. A cloud of snow and boulders plunged toward the valley floor.

The Great White Wyrm lifted its head and screamed again. Another lightning bolt from the red mountain crashed through the air. It struck Shamura, and the elf was outlined for a second in bright fire. She collapsed, smoke rising from her clothing. Even at a distance, Ayshe could see her hands and face were black and charred.

Otha-nyar circled swiftly around, finding the wyrm’s left side. As the mighty wings continued to beat, she hurled her wyrmbarb. “For my brother!” she shrieked.

The chain attached to the end of the barb snaked upward. The spear struck the wyrm beneath its wing, its point vanishing into the mighty muscle. The wyrm cried again.

But Ayshe saw the weakness of the Kagonesti’s attack. Under ordinary circumstances—if fighting a dragon could be called ordinary under any circumstances—he knew Otha-nyar and her brother would have attacked from opposite sides. Once both wyrmbarbs had found their target, they would have secured the chains to something. The dragon would be slowed by the attack long enough for the other elves of Dragonsbane to strike, wounding and killing it.

But with Samath-nyar dead and lying beneath the sea, Otha-nyar was alone. Moreover, on the valley floor there was no way to bind the chain from her barb. The wyrm’s wings flapped again, and it rose higher. Otha-nyar, clutching the chain, was lifted from her feet.

The three elf archers loosed a hail of arrows, but they bounced off the wyrm’s armored body as Otha-nyar’s struggling figure rose in the air.

“Let go, damn you!” roared Harfang.

It was too late. The wyrm had gained height too rapidly, and Otha-nyar was some hundreds of feet in the air, clinging desperately to the chain. The wyrm turned in midair and slashed at her with its claw. She gave a cry, a shower of red gushing from her as her arm was severed from her torso, and she fell. Her body smashed into the snow and lay still. Ayshe reached her first, but he did not need to examine her to know that the Kagonesti was dead. No one could topple from that height and live.

The remaining fighters of Dragonsbane ran toward the center of the valley. “Scatter!” Harfang shouted furiously. “To your posts! Dragonsbane! Heed me!”

The elves paid no attention. The closeness of the White Wyrm seemed to have plunged them into a fog through which their minds and bodies struggled to continue their planned attack. They milled about in the middle of the valley, while above them the wyrm circled on great wings. Malshaunt alone had retained his awareness, and he watched the wyrm with eager eyes, hands poised to launch another magical blast at it.

Tashara, after her outburst of rage, seemed withdrawn. She turned her face this way and that, listening for her foe. Her sword and shield gleamed bright in her hands.

Another bolt of lightning struck the floor of the valley, barely missing Anchallann. He drew back on his bow and sent a shaft darting toward the wyrm’s eye, but the beast jerked aside at the last moment and evaded it. The wyrm opened its mouth and sent out a long blast of cold. Anchallann tried to move aside, but hampered by the snow, he struggled, and the freezing breath struck both his legs. The wyrm descended upon him, and its long jaws snapped and met. It caught up the elf in its jaws, shaking him as a dog might shake a rat. His body was tossed to the ground, mangled and torn. The legs shattered into pieces.

Harfang shouted to Tashara. “Higher ground!” he roared. For a moment she stood still then nodded. The other elves began scrambling back toward the slope leading to the Dreamchamber entrance. Ayshe, with his shorter legs, tried to keep up. He glanced over his shoulder. The dragon seemed to be hovering. Surely its eye was fixed on him. He felt another surge of dragonfear and desperately tried to shrug it off.

The wyrm swept around, cutting off the party, blocking their path. It crashed to the ground before the Dreamchamber, and the mountains around it shook. The elves staggered to a halt, some falling back into the snow.

Tashara, in the lead, never hesitated. With a cry of hatred, she charged straight at the wyrm, her blade held out in front of her. She struck one of the mighty wings, and her sword tore a long gash in it. At the same time, three bolts of light from Malshaunt’s fingers smashed into its neck. Serpents in its mane twisted but were caught by the missiles. For a heartbeat they were outlined in magical fire, then lay limp.

The cry of the White Wyrm was so loud that rocks from the peaks above boomed to the ground and shattered. Ayshe fell as well, his ears ringing with the awful sound. Just in front of him, he saw Harfang stagger to his knees, blood running from his nose.

The wyrm leaped into the air again. It rose higher than before then dropped. Straight down it fell, legs splayed out. It struck the floor of the valley with a crash that echoed beyond the peaks and sent bolts of lightning leaping. The valley rocked and shuddered.

Ayshe suddenly realized what accounted for the land’s unnatural shape. It was no valley. Rather, it was a lake.

The Great White Wyrm’s fall shattered the ice that covered the lake. Pieces flew through the air. Out of the comer of his eye, Ayshe saw one smash Noortheleen, crushing her body, leaving a bloody smear in its wake. A wave of freezing water swept toward him. He felt a hand on his collar and realized Harfang was pulling him to safety.

He lay panting for a moment, tasting blood and snow. His body was shaking uncontrollably, and the air was filled with icy spray. He saw the mate had a long gash across one cheek from which blood was dripping on the snow. He sat up and looked around.

The lake was revealed. An enormous hole in the center showed where the dragon had gone. Plates of ice six feet thick reared up against one another in disarray. The fiery display of lightning from the surrounding peaks that had accompanied the wyrm had ceased. Ayshe looked around in vain for the other members of Dragonsbane.

Harfang followed his gaze and shook his head. For a long time, neither spoke.

“Dead,” Harfang said. “All dead.” His voice held a note of horror and defeat that Ayshe had never heard there before.

The dwarf rose. On the ice below them, Ayshe could see the broken bodies of the elves. Otha-nyar’s corpse floated in the water. Nearby was another body that, from the bow clutched in its stiffened hand, Ayshe recognized as Lannlathsar, one of the elf archers. Huddled bundles showed where others had fallen, destroyed by the White Wyrm’s fall.

Harfang stood beside him. “It’s the end,” he said quietly. “It’s the end of it all. They are all dead, and we have survived. We alone survive.”

Ayshe gazed at the scene of devastation, as so many months and a lifetime before he had looked on his ruined village. Harfang placed a hand on his shoulder. Man and dwarf stood and wept together for their lost friends.

But they were not alone. Tashara stood erect nearby. Her sword dripped blood from its stroke against the Great White Wyrm. Her face was suffused with triumph. She lifted the blade and gave a shout that made the mountains ring. It was long and ululating, and within it were words in an ancient Elvish tongue. A single ray of the morning sun broke through the clouds and surrounded her figure in a nimbus of light.

Next to her, Malshaunt’s dark robes hung over the mage’s gaunt body. He stared at the hole into which the wyrm’s body had vanished, and his face was transformed, its harsh features softened. For a moment, he looked young, as he might have looked when he first met Tashara and heard the tale of the White Wyrm.

Harfang stared at the pair, captain and mage. “So you have triumphed,” he said softly. “And what of the cost?” He shook his head and bent to pick up his sword.

The water of the lake began to bubble. Pieces of ice flew high into the air and smashed against the mountainsides. The shore shook, knocking man and dwarf to their knees. From the center of the lake, the wyrm rose. Water streamed from its body, and its green eyes looked death at the elf who had wounded it. It staggered in the air, suffering from the dreadful gash in its wing torn by Tashara’s sword.

It lashed its tail, striking the ground, smashing a portion of the old road to pieces. It opened its mouth and issued a roar—not the mere growl from its previous attacks, but a terrible, booming cry that bounded from mountaintop to mountaintop.

Tashara held her blade ready. Her voice lifted in challenge. “Come to me! Come to me, spawn of darkness! I have been long waiting for you.

“I am she whose coming was foretold to you when you were a hatchling! I am she who fills your dreams as you have filled mine. I am the Wyrmslayer!

The Great White Wyrm beat its wings again and settled on that ice that still covered parts of the lake. Its blood, falling on the snow, steamed as if boiling hot. From its side, Otha-nyar’s wyrmbarb still protruded. The beast’s edges were misty, and clouds boiled around it.

“It’s fading,” Harfang cried. “It’s fleeing from us into the other plane!”

Clouds swept over the valley, and the mist became thicker. Then, without warning, it began to disperse. The figure of the wyrm remained, though, its eyes blazing.

Tashara laughed wildly. “You cannot flee from me, wyrm!” she cried. “Though you took my sight, I can see you. I can see into your innermost being! I can see your fear of me, for I am fated to destroy you.”

As if in a dream, Ayshe listened to her words, and as if in a dream, he understood, at last, the strange link between elf and dragon, the destiny, decreed centuries before, that had bound them together. It seemed to him as if one could not exist without the other, that they were, in some strange way, each a part of a single being. Each saw into the heart of the other and understood. And there, at the world’s end, they were joined at last.

The moment passed, and Tashara appeared but a slight elf woman holding her small sword defiantly against the white death.

The wyrm rose, and a blast of blue fire leaped from the clouds above to strike Tashara. She jumped aside just in time but was hurled from her feet to smash to the ground away from the entrance to the Dreamchamber. With a cry, the wyrm sprang forward on its wings and disappeared through the entrance.

Tashara was on her feet in a moment and, without hesitation, raced after the beast, passing through the great doorway to vanish into the blackness. Malshaunt followed her, robes flapping behind him.

“Gods!” cried Harfang. “Come!” He rose and ran like a madman after his captain. Ayshe sprang to his feet and followed suit. Without thought, he pounded down the tunnel, struggling to catch up with the mate and captain. From ahead of him, he heard Malshaunt’s voice cry, “Tashara!”

At the very entrance to the Dreamchamber, he saw the elf woman. Her figure was limned by the light that flowed from the chamber once its mistress, the wyrm, occupied it.

The mate sprang forward with a shout. “No! Stop! This is suicide!”

From one side, Malshaunt stepped, a knife gleaming in his hand.

Harfang stopped dead, his back still to the dwarf. He faced Malshaunt, and for a moment the two, elf and man, seemed to cling together before the captain they both served.

The mage stepped back. For a moment, absolute silence surrounded them. Harfang half turned toward the dwarf. His face bore a puzzled expression, as if he were trying desperately to understand something. A trickle of blood came from the corner of his mouth, and he collapsed.

Ayshe was paralyzed with horror. Tashara seemed momentarily confused by what had happened. She put a hand forward, as if groping in the dark. “Harfang?” she said. “Harfang?” For a second, she sounded like an elf child searching for a lost parent.

From behind her in the chamber came a snarl. She turned and sprang forward, her sword raised for battle. Malshaunt turned away from the mate and followed his captain.

Ayshe jumped to the side of the mate. Harfang’s eyes were closed, his breathing labored.

A roar and a shout drew the dwarf’s attention back to the battle unfolding before him. The Great White Wyrm filled almost half the chamber. Unable to fly, it darted its head and struck with. its tail at the elf who circled near it, looking for a chance to strike. The pair wound among the pillars, feinting at one another, each seeking an opening.

Tashara swung her sword and scored a long gash on the wyrm’s foreleg. It snarled again in pain and extended its head with the speed of a striking snake. Its teeth clashed, just short of the elf captain’s head. She struck again at its face, but the beast was too fast for her and sprang back from her blow. It struck against one of the pillars of light, which trembled and broke. The walls of the chamber shook, and a shower of rocks fell from the vaulted ceiling far above their heads.

Tashara followed forward, striking again and again. The wyrm evaded some of her blows. Others struck against its scales and failed to wound it. The two foes circled round the pillars. One of the wyrm’s claws shot out, and Tashara did not evade it entirely. It opened a long cut along her side, but she ignored the wound and fought on.

Ayshe, bereft of his axe and sick at Malshaunt’s attack on Harfang, could only watch helplessly.

The White Wyrm struck against another pillar, smashing it. More rocks fell.

Ayshe looked up. He could see above him a dark gap in the roof, which was widening. He raised his voice. “Captain! The ceiling!”

Tashara did not so much as glance in his direction. Round and round she circled, striking at her opponent, evading its slashes at her.

A creaking groan came from above, the sound of buckling stone taxed beyond its limits. The walls of the tunnel seemed to lean inward. A great stone rumbled from above. Malshaunt, intent on the fight before him, seeking to hurl a spell at the wyrm, did not see the danger in time. The stone crashed downward. Ayshe had a brief glimpse of an upturned white face, mouth open in horror and rage; then Malshaunt was gone.

The dwarf stood, indecisive. He glanced down at Harfang, and all at once he knew what he must do. He must survive. He seized the mate’s body, straining his muscular arms. Though Harfang was a large man, the dwarf felt as if somehow he had been imbued with extraordinary strength. He pulled the man’s body roughly over his shoulder. Staggering with the weight, he gave a last glance at the battle then turned and fled up the tunnel.

A crash came from behind. He half turned as he ran and saw the passage roof crumbling behind him. Clouds of dust obscured any sight of the Dreamchamber where Tashara and the wyrm still fought one another. A dark cloud filled the air and rushed toward him. He ran fast, faster than he thought possible. The weight of Harfang’s body was almost too much for him to bear. Sweat poured down his face in rivers. The tunnel seemed to stretch before him endlessly, and his legs felt as if they’d turned to lead. At last he saw the light and raced toward it. He leaped from the entrance, half pushed by the expulsion of air behind him as the tunnel completed its collapse. The shelf of rock above the great doorway cracked and fell. Splinters of rock cut the dwarf’s face as he staggered forward, pushing the mate’s body before him into the open air. He felt the wind on his face. He was alive.

Ayshe stared at the blocked entrance to the Dreamchamber. He imagined he could feel the ground trembling, shaken by the titanic combat beneath his feet. But it was just an illusion. Above him, the clouds parted, and the sun lit the Valley of White Death, turning the snow to silver. He could see no sign of the bodies of his brave companions. They had vanished beneath the still waters of the lake.

“Master Dwarf!”

Ayshe turned. Harfang’s eyes were open. The bloody trickle at the corner of his mouth had become stronger, dripping red into the white snow. His hand struggled; to rise then fell back.

“You… are alive!”

Ayshe nodded. “So are you.”

Harfang’s mouth quivered. “Not… long. But you…” His head fell back for a moment; then he resumed. “That was why you… were fated to come… with us.”

“Why?” Ayshe shook his head. Tears nearly blinded him. “Why? What was the point? They’re all dead. All of them.” He gestured at the valley.

“But… you survive! You alone… are left… to tell the tale.” The mate’s voice was growing weaker. “Tell the tale… of the White Wyrm.”

His eyes closed.

Ayshe looked at him for a long time. He crossed the mate’s hands upon his chest. Then he rose. Slowly he turned his back to the tomb of Tashara, Malshaunt, and the White Wyrm and began to walk, limping and halting, back along the road toward the pass.