All he heard was the song of Deneir. All he saw was the music of the heavenly spheres.
When Danica came to the lip of the valley wall and saw her beloved apparently immolated, her legs buckled and her heart fluttered until she was sure it would stop. Her warrior instincts told her to go to the aid of her love, but what could she do against the likes of Fyrentennimar? Her hands and feet could be deadly against orcs and goblins, even giants, but they would do little damage to the iron-hard scales of the wyrm. Danica could hurl her crystal-bladed daggers into the heart of an ogre ten yards away, but those blades were tiny things when measured against the sheer bulk of Fyrentennimar.
The dragonfire ended, and looking at Cadderly, so boldly facing the wyrm in the open valley, Danica knew she had to do something, even as she was flooded with relief that he yet lived.
“Fyrentennimar the Awesome?” she cried. “A puny and weak thing is he, by my own eyes. A pretender of strength who cowers when danger is near!”
The dragon’s head snapped around to face her, high above on the lip of the valley wall.
“Ugly worm,” Danica chided, emphasizing her use of “worm” instead of “wyrm,” perhaps the most insulting thing one could say to a dragon. “Ugly and weak worm!”
The dragon’s tail twitched dangerously, reptilian eyes narrowed to mere slits, and Old Fyren’s low growl reverberated through the valley stone.
Standing before the distracted dragon, Cadderly picked up the pace of his chanting. He was truly glad for the distraction, but terribly afraid that Danica was pushing the explosive dragon beyond reason.
Danica laughed at Old Fyren, just crossed her hands over her belly and shook with laughter. Her thoughts were quite serious, though. She recalled the ancient writings of Penpahg D’Ahn, the grandmaster of her sect.
“You anticipate the attacks of your enemy,” the Grandmaster had promised. “You do not react, you move before your enemy moves. As the bowman fires, his target is gone. As the swordsman thrusts ahead, his enemy, you, are behind him.
“And as the dragon breathes,” Penpahg had said, “so its flames shall touch only empty stone.”
Danica needed those words just then, with Fyrentennimar’s head waving only a hundred feet below her. Penpahg D’Ahn’s writings were the source of her strength, the inspiration for her life, and she had to trust them, even in the face of an outraged red dragon.
“Ugly, ugly Fyrentennimar, who thinks he is so good,” she sang. “His talons cannot tear cotton, his breath cannot light wood!” Not an impressive rhyme perhaps, but the words assaulted the overly proud Fyrentennimar more profoundly than any weapon ever could.
The dragon’s wings beat suddenly, ferociously, lifting the dragon into the air—almost.
Cadderly completed his spell at that moment, and the stone beneath Fyrentennimar reshaped, animated, and grabbed at the dragon’s rear claws. Old Fyren stretched to his limit, seemed almost springlike as he came crashing back down, falling tight against his haunches, but all of his subsequent thrashing couldn’t break the valley floor’s hold.
Fyrentennimar knew at once the source of his entrapment, and his great head whipped around, slamming hard against the blocking line of the dragonbane spell.
Cadderly paled—could his protective globe defeat a second searing blast of dragon breath?
“His wings cannot lift his blubber,” Danica cried out. “His tail cannot swat a gnat.”
The dragon’s ensuing roar echoed off mountain walls a dozen miles away, and sent animals and monsters rushing for the cover of their holes throughout the Snowflake Mountains. The serpentine neck stretched forward, and a gout of flames fell over Danica.
Stone melted and poured from the ledge in a red-glowing river. Pikel, hiding in an alcove beneath the area, let out a frightened squeak and rushed away.
Cadderly verged on panic, thought for sure that he’d just seen his love die, and knew in his heart, despite the logical claims of his conscience, that nothing, not the destruction of the Ghearufu or the downfall of Castle Trinity, could be worth such a loss.
He calmed, though, when he remembered who he was thinking of, remembered the wisdom and almost magical talents of his dear Danica. He had to trust in her, as she so often trusted in him.
“His horns get caught in archways,” Danica continued the rhyme, laughing over the words as she came back up to the ledge at a point some thirty feet to the side. “And his muscles are no more than fat!”
Fyrentennimar’s eyes widened with outrage and incredulity. He thrashed his tail and legs, slammed his horned head repeatedly against the magical dragon-bane barrier, and beat his wings so fiercely that goblin corpses shifted and slid, caught up in the wind.
Like Danica, Cadderly grinned, though he knew the fight was far from won. One of Fyrentennimar’s claws had torn free of the stone, and the other would soon break through. The young priest completed his next enchantment, pulled from the sphere of time, and hurled waves of magical energy at the distracted dragon.
Old Fyren felt the stone loosen around his one trapped leg, though it retightened immediately. The dragon, wise with years though he was, didn’t understand the significance, didn’t understand why the valley suddenly seemed much larger to him.
Again the wyrm sensed that Cadderly was somehow involved, and he calmed his tirade and steeled an angry glare over the supposedly “humble” priest.
“What have you done?” Fyrentennimar demanded.
The dragon jerked suddenly, slammed from behind by Vander, the firbolg’s huge sword smashing in hard at Fyrentennimar’s trapped haunch.
“Time to go!” Ivan yelled to his brother, and the two dwarves appeared from behind their rocks, heads down in a wild charge.
To the still huge Fyrentennimar, the firbolg’s hit did no real damage. A tail slap sent Vander flying away, crashing down against the base of the valley wall. Resilient, Vander came right back up, knowing that none of the band could give in to the pain and the terror, that there could be no retreat and no quarter against such a merciless and terrible foe.
The new distractions couldn’t have come at a better time for Cadderly. Again came the waves of his divine magic, and to Old Fyren, the valley seemed larger still.
Cadderly could see understanding dawn on the dragon—the “humble” priest was stealing his age! And to a dragon, age was the measure of size and strength. “Old Fyren” was more than a match for the pitiful companions, but “Young Fyren” found himself in dire straits.
“Bat-winged newt with a bumpy head, run away, run away before you’re dead!” Danica cried out.
The immediate threats were the charging dwarves and the humble priest with his wicked magic. Fyrentennimar must have known that rationally, surely knew that he should put his mouth in line with the charging dwarves and incinerate them before they got near him. But no respectable red dragon could ignore the taunt of “bat-winged newt,” and Fyrentennimar’s head went back up toward the ledge, his fire bursting forth in Danica’s direction.
Or at least, bursting forth to where Danica had been.
By the time the fires ended with more molten stone slipping down from the ledge, the dwarf brothers were hacking and smashing away, and while their weapons would have skipped harmlessly off the scale plating of Old Fyren, they cracked and smashed apart the thinned and smaller scales. After only three furious swings, Ivan’s axe dug deep into the young dragon’s flesh.
Similarly, Shayleigh’s line of arrows chipped away at the dragon’s scales. So perfect was the elf maiden’s aim that the next six arrows that left her quiver hit the dragon in a concentrated pattern no larger than the brim of Cadderly’s blue hat.
Cadderly was truly exhausted. His eyelids drooped heavily, and his heart pounded in his chest. He went back into the song again, though, stubbornly steeled his gaze, and loosed the energies.
But Fyrentennimar was ready for the magical assault, and the spell was turned aside.
Cadderly came at him again, and a third ti
me. The young priest could barely focus his vision, could hardly remember what he was doing and why he was doing it. His head throbbed, and he felt as if every ounce of divine energy he let loose was an ounce of energy stolen from his own life-force.
Yet he sang on.
Then he was lying on the stone, his head bleeding from an unexpected impact on the valley floor. He looked up and was glad to see that his enchantment had gotten through once more, that Fyrentennimar seemed not so large to him, barely taller than a hill giant. But Cadderly knew that the spells were not lasting, that Fyrentennimar’s stolen centuries would soon return. They had to hit at the dragon hard. Cadderly had to find some offensive magic that would smash the monster while the dragon was caught in his lessened state.
But the song of Deneir would not play in the young priest’s head. He couldn’t bring to mind the name of his holy book, couldn’t even recall his own name. The pain in his head throbbed, blocking all avenues of thought. He could hardly draw breath past the sheer physical exertion of his beating chest. He brought a hand to his pounding heart and felt his bandoleer then, following that single, focused thought, he drew out his hand crossbow.
Ivan and Pikel went into a flurry of activity under the dragon’s slashing foreclaws. Ivan was buffeted by a wing, but hooked his axe over the limb’s top and would not be thrown away.
Vander’s next hit on the dragon’s haunch shattered several scales and drove a deep gash. Fyrentennimar roared in agony, swooped his serpentine neck around, launching his open maw for the dangerous giant. Vander tugged his sword free, and knew he had to be quick or be snapped in half.
It took Cadderly several moments to load and cock his weapon, and when he looked back to the fight, he found Fyrentennimar, on the stone and level with him, staring him in the eye from just a few feet away.
Cadderly cried out and fired, the quarrel blasting into the dragon’s nostril and blowing pieces from his face. Cadderly, scrambling on all fours with the little strength he had left, didn’t even see the hit. He calmed considerably when he at last looked back, though, and he realized that Fyrentennimar’s head had only been near him, had only crossed the line of dragonbane, because Vander had lopped it off, halfway up the neck.
Pikel stood by the fallen torso, mumbling, “Oooo,” over and over.
Cadderly, his senses slowly returning, didn’t understand the green-bearded dwarf’s apparent concern, until he saw the top of Ivan’s head wriggle out from under the chest of the dead wyrm. With a stream of curses to make a barkeep of Waterdeep’s Dock Ward blush, Ivan pulled himself out, slapping Pikel’s offered hand away. The yellow-bearded dwarf hopped to his feet, hands planted squarely on his hips, and eyed Vander dangerously.
“Riding stupid dragons!” he huffed, glancing menacingly Cadderly’s way. “Well?” the dwarf roared at the confused firbolg.
Vander looked to Pikel for some explanation, but the green-bearded Bouldershoulder only shrugged and put his hands behind his back.
“Move the damned thing so I can get back me axe!” Ivan howled in explanation. He shook his head in disgust, stomped over to Cadderly, and roughly pulled the man to his feet.
“And don’t ye ever think o’ bringing a stupid dragon along again!” Ivan roared, poking Cadderly hard in the chest. The dwarf shoved by and stormed away, looking for a quiet spot where he could brood.
Pikel followed, after offering Cadderly a comforting pat on the shoulder.
Cadderly smiled, despite his pain and exhaustion, when he looked at Pikel. As long as everything turned out all right, the easygoing dwarf cared little for any troublesome details—as was evidenced by the dwarf’s not-too-well hidden, “Hee hee hee,” as he skipped along behind his surly brother.
Cadderly would have shaken his head in disbelief, but he feared the effort would cost him his tentative balance.
“She is all right,” Shayleigh remarked to him, coming up and following his worried gaze toward the melted ledge.
True to the elf maiden’s words, Danica came running in through the valley entrance a moment later, flying with all speed for her love. She grabbed Cadderly tightly and held him close, and he needed her support, for the weariness, more complete than Cadderly had ever experienced, had come rushing back in full.
THIRTEEN
TO TRUST
She viewed the dragon, full-sized once more, dead in the rocky vale, focused on its severed head lying a few feet from the scaly torso. All around the grisly scene, Dorigen saw the smoldering, torn remains of goblins and giants, scores of the beasts. And walking out of the valley, weary perhaps, but not one of them showing any serious wounds, went Cadderly and Danica, flanked by the two dwarves, the elf maiden, and the traitorous firbolg.
Dorigen slipped back into her chair and allowed the image to disappear from her crystal ball. At first she’d been surprised to so easily get through Cadderly’s magical defenses and locate the young priest, but when she gazed upon the scene, upon the carnage and the fury of Fyrentennimar, she’d understood the priest’s excusable defensive lapse.
Dorigen thought that she was witnessing Cadderly’s end, and the end of the threat to Castle Trinity. She had almost called in Aballister, almost advised the older wizard to go out and recruit Fyrentennimar as an ally for their unhindered attack against Carradoon and onward across the Baronies of Erlkazar.
Her surprise as Cadderly literally shrank the great wyrm—by stealing its age, Dorigen presumed—couldn’t have been more complete, and complete, too, was Dorigen’s surprise as she sat back and honestly considered her own feelings.
She had felt saddened when she thought Cadderly doomed. Logically, ambitious Dorigen could tell herself that Cadderly’s death would be a good thing for the designs of Castle Trinity, that the interference of the young priest could no longer be tolerated, and that in killing the young priest Fyrentennimar would have only saved Aballister the trouble. Logically, Dorigen should not have felt sympathy for Cadderly as he stood, apparently helpless, before the dreaded wyrm.
But she had, and she had silently cheered for Cadderly and his brave friends in their titanic struggle, had actually leaped up in joy when the firbolg came up from behind and lopped the dragon’s head off.
Why had she done that?
“Have you sighted anything this day?”
The voice startled Dorigen so badly she nearly fell out of her chair. She quickly threw the cloth over the crystal ball, though its interior was a cloud of nothingness once more, and fumbled to straighten and compose herself as Aballister threw open the curtain serving as her front door and whisked in beside her.
“Druzil has lost contact with the young priest,” Aballister continued. “It would seem that he is making fine progress through the mountains.”
If only you knew, Dorigen thought, but she remained silent. Aballister couldn’t begin to guess that the young priest was no more than a day’s march from Castle Trinity. Nor could the old wizard imagine that Cadderly and his friends would be resourceful and powerful enough to overcome the likes of Old Fyren.
“What do you know?” the suspicious Aballister demanded, drawing Dorigen from her private contemplations.
“I?” Dorigen replied innocently, poking a finger against her own chest, her amber eyes wide with feigned surprise.
If Aballister hadn’t been so self-absorbed at that moment, he would have caught Dorigen’s defensive overreaction.
“Yes, you,” the wizard snarled. “Have you been able to make contact with Cadderly?”
Dorigen looked back to the crystal ball, mulled the question over for a short moment, then replied, “No.” When she looked back, she saw that Aballister continued to eye her with suspicion.
“Why did you hesitate before answering?” he asked.
“I thought I had made contact,” Dorigen lied. “But it was only a goblin.”
Aballister’s scowl showed that he was not convinced.
“I fear your son misdirected my scrying attempt,” Dorigen quickly added, putting t
he older wizard on the defensive.
“The last time Druzil saw Cadderly, he was near the mountain called Nightglow,” Aballister said, and Dorigen nodded her agreement. “There is a storm brewing in that area, so it’s unlikely that he will have gone very far.”
“That would seem logical,” Dorigen agreed, though she knew better.
The old wizard grinned maliciously. “A storm brewing,” he mused. “But unlike any storm my foolish son has ever encountered!”
It was Dorigen’s turn to eye him with suspicion. “What have you done?”
“Done?” Aballister laughed. “Better to ask what I will do!” Aballister spun around in a circle, as animated as Dorigen had seen him since that whole business had begun, nearly a year before when Barjin had entered the Edificant Library.
“I grow weary of this game!” Aballister said fiercely, stopping his spin so that his hollowed face was barely inches from Dorigen’s crooked nose. “And so now, I will end it!”
With a snap of his fingers, he left the room, left Dorigen to wonder what he had in mind. The curtain serving as her door seemed a poignant reminder of Aballister’s wrath, and she couldn’t contain a shudder when she thought of the magic that Aballister might soon be launching Cadderly’s way.
Or at where he believed Cadderly to be.
Why hadn’t she told her mentor the truth? Dorigen wondered. Aballister was planning something big, perhaps even going out personally to deal with his son, and Dorigen hadn’t told him what she knew about Cadderly’s position, that the young priest was many miles beyond Nightglow.
Rationally, it seemed to the woman that letting Aballister go out and deal with Cadderly would be her safest course, for if Cadderly’s attempt at Castle Trinity proved successful, Dorigen, no ally of the young priest, would likely find herself in serious trouble.