The journey up the Mount, on that day was the heaviest climb ere man has ever done on the Lordly-Isle up until that time. Balthrorth had none of the strength in magic, will or physical might of the Warlock-King of Amadan, or the magic of Gith-Andrathal, or the will and physical might of Arndryck the Golden, Balthrorth was still the most terrifying force alongside Razenth currently living on the Lordly-Isle.

  The cavern loomed as ever as a yawning-gap from the Northmen’s tales about the dawn of time, so that Gwilherm stepped thither with his heart beating with such force as to reduce a man to his knees from sheer pain. But not the great harpist of Auldchester, who in spite of his fear hummed a tune, singing below his breath the song of Cormac. More specifically the part of his great-song that involved the battle of the Vyrtigern Fields, wherein Cormac pushed back the armies of darkness, with the fields being just north of Valdchester, just south-east of Cymru.

  “Hwaet! This be Cormac’s tale,

  Quiet in birth in that far vale,

  Black shores welcom’d Elves,

  Dark wore the foul ones,

  Slack found they the Lordly-Isle,

  Hark sayeth they the most vile,

  Years uncount’d pass’d whilst war ruled,

  Corpses untold heap’d whither they annex’d,

  Flowers whithered in all fields,

  Amongst both the corps and the reeds,

  Paint’d all scarlet didst they with steel,

  Vale to vale was red seen,

  Wails wert shed by clean and unclean,

  Short ran the plenty until famish’d,

  More cry’d all who bled,

  Vast travel’d was Neithan Oak-manstle,

  Father to he who never didst rankle,”

  Behind him, following after a few minutes away was Roparzh, who had done as he had promised also, if slightly more reluctantly. Similar in nature to Vladin, he was far more pragmatic in nature than Gwilherm, who fought against all the tribulations in life sword and heart in hand rather than with his mind. Swept away by the glory and emotions of the great-song that he had been composing what felt to be his whole life, a song which won him a curious glance from Roparzh as they advanced into the darkness once more, for what they knew could be the last.

  “What song is that, you are humming sieur Guilhèm?” Roparzh asked nervously.

  “That of Cormac, I have been composing it for a long time yet, ere long I had hoped to conclude it as it has as yet no ending,” He admitted with a great deal of embarrassment and reluctance. Only an artist could understand his feelings of shame and timidity at that moment, at the prospect of a raw, unfinished work being over-heard or seen by another.

  “It is magnificent, I hope to live to see it finished,” Roparzh said with a white-smile that reminded him then of the same smile Eadwin and Elena (his sister) had once given him.

  Warmth in his belly, Gwilherm did not even correct him on the account of being called ‘Guilhèm’. Aware that at times the translation from Neustrian to Brittian could be difficult for his good friend, whom he attempted to address in a stuttering if friendly voice of his own. “I thank ye R-Ropar- I mean Robert I believe-”

  “C’est correct.”

  “Robert, I believe you are the wiser about the road we travel,” He said anxiously still not over-fond of the bones that crunched beneath his bones and grazed here and there.

  “O-oui, though I have climbed up the mountain but three times.”

  “Why?”

  “To face fear, I must confess to having always turned back once I reached the corner,” The shame in the voice and upon the face of valiant Roparzh was the sort only one who was present in that cavern and who had ventured whither into the nest of Balthrorth could well have understood.

  The darkness soon gave way as the bones did to the light of the nest, bones to gold and the singular companionship of one another to that shared with the great scarlet Wyrm. Dread at once accrued itself into their souls, as they stared with utter revulsion at the bane of Eadwin and Morcar. The ‘King of Estria’ was in the midst of resting, loud and sonorous was his foul breath as his scales shone more brightly than the gold, upon which he was roosted. The same palpable aura of evil and terror froze the two in their tracks.

  Gwilherm though took comfort and heart in the fact that, for all the noise they had made at the foot, on the journey and inside of Mt-Sorg, at least Balthrorth was asleep. Little did he know that the drake slept not, as he was merely feigning rest and had schemed since quite some time ago to wait for the arrival of Gwilherm and his companions. As a messenger had been sent to him by Wigstan to inform him of the brother of Elena the Queen’s hopes to slay him (just before he devoured the unfortunate messenger).

  It was as they stood on thereon precipice to the gold-nest of Balthrorth that they saw for the first, figures at the other end of it, making their way into it. It took a long moment before the two warriors saw that this was none other than Millarth with all of their companions and the hostages. Gwilherm pieced together at once, what had likely happened; namely that once the warriors had gone, Millarth had had his guards seize and disarm Eahlstan, and recapture the women and Vladin. From there he had climbed the mountain and entered the nest of the dragon, via a hidden tunnel, one that only he knew of and possibly Balthrorth. The shock and rage that permeated them was hotter than the worst flames of Muspell, with Gwilherm so outraged he leapt thither. He hit the ground hard, so that he necessitated a long minute or five before he could move forth, his spear well in hand as he made for them, by this time they stood near to Balthrorth who had still given no indication that he was awake.

  When he did so, it was for one of his eyelids to lift a fraction of a half-meter (which for him was nothing) to study the youth racing across his nest, with what was a scale of his chained to a stick. This in particular intrigued him, even if he felt no great amount of fear to it, so arrogant and puffed up with pride had he become that not even Ziu, descending with his flaming sword in hand to melt his scales and bones to naught, could have frightened him. Only Roparzh, who had the sharpest eyes of all those who had accompanied Gwilherm into the lands of Estria noticed this slight motion, and felt instantly a wave of panic as his stomach fell to his toes.

  “LIAR! OATH-BREAKER!” Gwilherm shrieked hardly in control of himself, his buckler now firmly held in his left hand, as he moved to join Millarth and his frightened prisoners and companions.

  “Guilhèm arrête!” Roparzh shouted in his native Neustrian.

  Incensed beyond reason, Gwilherm did not heed his words until Elena sensing some of the danger, from where she was chained (she was now at present chained to the other women and Eahlstan), with the enchanter at the head of the prisoners. The order of prisoners was as follows; first walked Eahlstan (just behind the muscled brute who had claimed his staff), then there followed Elena just behind him, then Mildburg, followed by Bada who was still held (though not carried) by her mother, and then Ethel. Vladin for his own part, walked to the left of ?lffl?d with the clear intent to shield her from harm if needed. His good intentions though were somewhat undermined, by the brute who walked just behind him, the one before and another to the left of him, so that he was entirely surrounded.

  The twelve men that Millarth had brought with him were all heavily armed, and surrounded the small elder, who sneered at the racing warrior. Warned in advance by mere seconds, of the danger that loomed near him, he had just to say arrived a few meters from him, when sensing danger just as Elena screamed he threw himself to the ground. In that instant the massive fangs of Balthrorth tore through the air, sending gold coins and precious jewels scattering about the nest, his face coming within mere inches of the cavern wall.

  Shocked and winded, Gwilherm was upon his feet in an instant, lost and terrified, but as surely as he was buried up to his knees in gold and jewels, he took action. Swiping at the elongated serpentine neck of Balthrorth with his spear, he hardly scraped aside a few scales with his massive foe hardly feeling the wound.

  “What do you hope to accomplish fool!?” Millarth yelled unaware of how similar he sounded then to his deceased daughter, who had perished there but a month and a half before.

  “Gwilherm fly, you fool fly!” Elena shrieked seized by fear, whilst Bada and Ethel burst into tears, where ?lffl?d and Eahlstan stood frozen where they were with fear.

  Mildburg for her own part pulled at the chains, shouting as she did so for them to release them.

  Sweat beaded Gwilherm’s brow, as the terrible drake seemed to burn with a heat that melted all beneath him. Swift as Hermes might have once been, Balthrorth pulled back from his pounce, striking with a terrible claw at the warrior beneath him, who leapt back heroically away from the claw, evading it only to trip and fall back, from his feet full of terror.

  “Silence, you harlot!” Millarth shouted as he struck Elena so hard, she fell from her feet with a small cry.

  Seeing this from the corner of his eyes, served only to enrage Gwilherm all the more, as he full of wroth now, leapt back to his feet and might well have charged the old man, were he not faced by a dragon. One who glowered down at him, and reared his head back a little, with it being at that moment that boldness possessed the brother of Eadwin to stab down at the paw of his foe.

  Though it was not the deepest of wounds, it stabbed through the scales, knocked a few more clear, with the strike causing Balthrorth to shriek now in pain, as he had not expected such an attack.

  “Strike him! Strike him King Balthrorth! He is nothing! Naught more than a filthy lowly harpist!” Millarth roared with fury, bouncing up and down with frustration at his liege’s incompetence.

  He might have done better to remain silent, as the severely antagonised Balthrorth turned a livid crimson-eyed glower upon him. “Who is King and who the meal, pitiful mortal?”

  No sooner had he uttered these words than Eahlstan and Vladin guessed at his intent, with the two of them moving at once. For his own part, the Dwarf moved to seize and pull away the other captives, whereupon Eahlstan leapt forward only to be swept off his feet in midair as the ladies hurried where the non-human pressed them. Seeing this, the dozen guards might have followed were they not frozen where they stood, when their liege was seized in mid-scream by the jaws of doom and evil that tore through all before him to destroy the deacon of Falsveal.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was thus how Millarth met his terrible end. Ending it in hate and violence, just as he had begun his climb to power in this manner, having sacrificed all his daughters to the very beast who murdered him, there was none to mourn him after he had passed. Seeing this, Gwilherm hardly mourned feeling only contempt for the man, who had striven to sacrifice all about him for his own greed.

  Sensing an opportunity, he grasped his spear and threw it towards the armoured-breast of Balthrorth with all his might. The wound that was inflicted was truly deep, and of the sort to tear from the lips of the dragon a second, more agonised scream of unadulterated pain than before. From this wound Gwilherm only noticed now the effects that the blood of the Wyrm had upon the gold beneath him, which sizzled and melted at the heat of it. It flowed less like the blood of say you or I, but rather more like lava though it fell as ordinarily blood did and was as red as it. Redder maybe, the sizzling noise which had also proceeded after the paw-wound though that one had failed to truly be noticed as the paw had been removed from near him so swiftly he had hardly noticed it until he had torn his eyes from that place.

  The hatred, with which Gwilherm was at last regarded with, froze him in place where he stood. Luckily though, if he were uncertain of what to do, Roparzh was aware of what had to be done, as he shook himself from his own fright and shouted across the great cavern at those who had arrived through the other entrance. “Gwilherm! To arms! To arms, you also foul knaves! The dragon has lost all reason!”

  Poor Roparzh attempted to lend aid, however his impressive sword that had been passed down to him by his beloved father shattered on impact with the unending tail of the crimson dread of Estria. This just before he was flicked aside by the very tip of it, thrown off his feet he crashed into the wall behind him, so hard he lost consciousness instantly.

  Panicked Gwilherm searched about his person for another weapon, just as the blood of Balthrorth melted the stick the scale embedded into his breast was chained to. He attempted his daggers but those shattered harmlessly against the metal that covered the hide of the cousin of Razenth the Foul.

  The men of Falsveal to their dread were not given much warning before flames poured hither from the gaping maw of the giant reptile. The flames spread so far, so wide and with such terror that some that stood near it long enough were melted to naught, with four of the men engulfed completely by them. Their screams of agony and terror the last any saw or heard of them, with these four dying in the initial wave, two melted to naught and the rest were engulfed in the succeeding seconds.

  The flames surrounded and destroyed all that was in the north-west of the cave, with the gold and cavern wall melted into puddles. Gwilherm thought that his friends had been caught up in the heat of the flames, with this proven not so but some time afterwards. During this time, all he could do was stare in dumbfounded shock and grief.

  The grief as so oft happens at so violent a loss (or perceived loss) exploded into a great fount of rage as Gwilherm not having any more weapons turned now to the last of them all that lay within his grasp. With a great bellow he unsheathed Morcar’s sword and reversing his grip so as to toss it as one might a spear, he threw it with all his might. The weapon was brushed aside by the large paw (the right one actually), the same that he had wounded earlier in his first attempt to attack Balthrorth.

  “Pathetic little human,” Balthrorth taunted pulling back his right hand that had just swept aside the thrown blade, so as to rest his chin upon it, “Is this all that you have? A broken sword?”

  Unsheathing his other sword that which he had carried upon his back, between his shield and his armoured back, the lion-helmed warrior charged forth with yet another enraged bellow. For several minutes he strove to wound the dragon upon the other paw, with the Wyrm moving his paw hither and thither to evade the blow, hardly impressed by the mighty attempts by his prey to wound him. The anger of Gwilherm was such that he never tired, never failed to lift his sword up once more, and never failed to cry out in rage at his foe.

  “Face me you coward! Face me proper!” He shouted after a time, angered by the lack of response by his foe, who shrugged a little in dark amusement.

  “O very well, O ‘Knight of Estria’,” Balthrorth boomed with utter contempt in return, as he reared back his head.

  This was all the warning that the noble was to receive (or needed), as he held up the ram-buckler of Falsveal and ducked behind it. The magic therein was his only hope, as fire burst forth from the mouth of the evil drake, one whom had never before known defeat or seen any push him back. The dragon-fire rent all before it to naught, until there was little more than a puddle of gold, as he knelt in the golden field of treasures before the dragon with the shield raised Gwilherm prayed thence.

  “O shield of the enemies of my ancestors, guard me! Guard me as surely as thou hast done for the men of Falsveal and as the buckler of Ziu might shield him from the blows of demons!” He whispered so that only it could hear him, just as Balthorth taunted him once more.

  “Ha! No shield of Falsveal could parry my dragon-fire!”

  Little did the lord of Mt-Sorg know though, was that this shield had been blessed once upon a time by a sorcerer of untold power, and mixed not only with Dwarf-steel but a sacred stone. One given to the Dwarf by the great Emperor Aemiliemagne, had he known this, Balthrorth might not have been so arrogant, as his flames not only failed to burn or melt the human to ash as they had done all others who had ever stood before him. But they were pushed to either side of heroic Gwilherm, to the utter stupefied shock now of Balthrorth.

  Gaping he could not believe his eyes, with it only being then that fear at last entered his nefarious heart biting back his magnificent shield of scarlet scales to do so. The flames melted the cavern wall to either side almost a kilometre behind Gwilherm, who breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Impossible! No shield save those of éluan and Alan Gold-Buckler could parry my flames and neither are to be found in this uncouth land!” Balthrorth roared with amazement, his voice trembling with fear as he back a little away from the warrior before him.

  As was so oft the case, being a bully who picked upon and devoured smaller creatures than himself, the appearance of one who could stand against him thus frightened him. If only Gwilherm could have done more as he stood frozen in place, now too wearied to possibly move against the dragon, who had for his own part hesitated.

  That which broke the period of uncertainty between the cowardly dragon and weary warrior, was the voice of Elena who broke through the noiseless hall, as her voice echoed throughout the whole of the cave. “Gwilherm! Gwilherm!”

  This distracted the hero-harpist who turned his head to stare, just as Balthrorth did, with the flames to the west of where he stood waning enough if briefly so for him to see the young woman standing behind Eahlstan. All those chained to him, stood behind him as he held up his staff which glowed with a bright green light that had shielded them all, with the trembling old man perspiring and coughing a little as he waved over at the youth also.

  “See lad, I am more than an enchanter! I am also a staff-mage and even I can shield us from the flames of the drake,” He boasted only to hold up a sharpened part of the spear that the young man had used prior to that moment. “And look, I have retrieved the crudely sharpened spear-point of Morcar!”

  Before anything further could be said, the eyes of Balthrorth glowed as two large rubies might with the ball at the end of the staff of Eahlstan shattered a moment later! Shocked Eahlstan let loose a cry of surprise, as the women behind him shrieked and Vladin leapt back as one of the shards came close to piercing him where he stood. The dragon having recovered from his prior moment of fear reacted with far more rapidity than the knight, as he slammed his left paw into him. Shoved back against the cavern wall, with enough force to extract all the air from his lungs, with his buckler pressed flatly against the wall, with his other hand free if helplessly so, the whole of his body below his neck pinned in place.

  Stunned, Gwilherm could do little more than stare as his friends called out to him, and Balthrorth sneered down at him, “Regardless how impressive your shield, it is only as useful as you, yourself are! Now all are at my mercy, and you will watch as I devour your precious women before you, human!”

  Long did he sit there, boasting at the expense of his defeated foe, the terrible dragon laughed to the utterly helpless rage of his foe, who squeezed his eyes closed. Broken by his defeated Gwilherm could not believe he had failed so completely and utterly.

  What all had forgotten though, was that there was another knight; one more foolish and hungry to redeem himself than Gwilherm could ever hope to be. Roparzh had no weapon when he awoke and after he had recovered from his vomiting, picking up the broken sword that lay near him. Seeing it with its sharp if broken tip, he had picked it up only to weigh it in his right-hand before he held it aloft as one might a spear only to realise he could never throw it up at the dragon. So he had torn off a part of his tabard, tied it to a nearby arrow near him, and picked up a bow- one that was bejewelled (it was very obviously that of some Dwarven noble).

  Once tied the ‘arrow’ was prepared, and he fired it with expert aim towards the right eye of Balthrorth who distracted by his own cruelty did not see it coming for a few seconds. It was only when he heard a peculiar whistling noise and the war-cry ‘ZIU!’ of Roparzh that he glanced in that direction.

  This being done in time to receive the ‘arrow’ straight into his eye which soon cracked open and gushed blood all over below him. A sharp scream of pain, greater than any of the previous ones shook the whole of Mt-Sorg.

  “For Brigantia, and Ziu foul beast!” Roparzh shouted as he made the sign of the flower, then that of the sword, the first involved holding up his right hand towards the middle of his left-arm then one was to touch the shoulder. Then the middle of the right-arm, then that shoulder followed by the heart, followed by the temple, where the motion of the sword involving touching one’s temple with the left-hand only to lower it towards one’s heart and moving it from one side to the other in the shape of the cross-guard of a sword.

  Backing away and shaking his head with all the madness of one who is possessed Balthrorth proceed to bring about his own fall in the moments that followed. His great bellow of pain and rage as he slammed back against the back of the cavern, flames escaping his mouth to lick away and melt all about him, as he screamed, “My eye! MY EYEEEEEEEE! O HOW DARE THOU DOEST THIS TO ME, FILTHY MAGGOTS!”

  His great roar further shook the ceiling of the cavern. Whilst all froze to stare up at him, including Gwilherm who had fallen to the ground, his breath knocked from him. A portion of the mountain avalanching onto him, the dragon was half-buried beneath what were tons of rock, boulders and land which served to further wound and distract him. Flapping his wings helplessly as thousands of rocks and boulders, smashed down upon him, with many piercing and bouncing off his wings before enough fell to pin them down, for no rock no matter how sharp could ever hope to cut through dragon-scales.

  “Gwilherm! Strike now!” Eahlstan screamed just as Vladin reached near enough to the human to throw the scale towards him, which he caught with a hand that was half numb from earlier.

  “You must tie it to an arrow as Roparzh did!” The Dwarf screamed also, his face red with fear and emotions.

  The bellow of Balthrorth penetrated cave once again, this time his flames when they burst forth from his lips, were once again padded away by Gwilherm who attempted to walk forward through them, shield first. This further angered Balthrorth, who glowered malevolently at him, from where he was pinned, pinned down, his muscles pulled and broken (for dragon-bones more than scales do not break) as he glowered and drooled all over the cavern cursing at Gwilherm in his terrible, ancient tongue which all dragons knew.

  Though he had a small piece of the scale of Balthrorth which had broken off for only dragon scales could break other dragon-scales, or so it was told (and observed that day), Gwilherm could hardly find the time to prepare an arrow or to find himself a bow, even as Roparzh made his way towards him. Bow in hand with another arrow in hand, the knight hoped to be of assistance but had to keep his distance for fear of being burnt or melting due to the terrible heat that prevailed in the cavern. Heat that was only growing worse, with each second that slowly passed.

  In time it was likely that the ground beneath Gwilherm’s feet might well have melted away and become molten gold and melted his feet, as the shield protected him from the magic-fire and its heat but not from molten-gold. Yet another miracle took place as Remus, barked and growled. The large black dog howled menacingly, having descended from the precipice at long last to trail after Roparzh.

  Distracted by the dog if momentarily, Balthrorth with his large right-eye squeezed shut glared down upon the mutt with unveiled hostility. “What? A dog, here?” The question was torn from his lips as though it were a curse, with the dragon glaring down at the defiant canine who bared his teeth at him menacingly. “Such a pitiful and worthless creature… None shalt miss it…”

  Aware of what he was about to do, Gwilherm felt his rage gather together, as never before as he cast down the shield he had hidden behind all this time, with a great cry as he tore off a piece of his cloak, tied the bit of scale to a nearby ornamental sword, picked up a bejewelled bow and took aim. Praying as he did so, “Arrow find thine mark, in the name of all the ancient war-gods of Roma and the new ones of Quirinas!”

  The make-shift arrow flew thence from the strung arrow, just as Balthrorth rear back his head to spew flames once more, this time to eradicate the greatest of Gwilherm’s friends and fellow warriors. The tip of the scale penetrated the wound just above where the scale-spear of Morcar had and buried itself into the very heart of the dragon, so deeply that the dragon barely had time to ponder his own demise before blood poured forth once more and his spirit left him.

  Racing towards him, faster than Elena or Vladin or even Eahlstan, was Remus the dog, who threw himself against his companion who breathless and not seeing him coming, was thrown off his feet by the highly-affectionate two year old dog. A laugh escaped his lips as he was licked all over by the proud pup, who’s tail cut through the air as easily as the arrow that was Balthrorth’s bane had through the drake.

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