Now the Bleck is covered with grey mist. Athelstan plies the oars of the ferry-boat. There is no-one in the boat with him. No river-birds are to be seen or heard. Athelstan feels very lonely as he rows across the river, and the quiet splashing and dripping of his oars is the only sound. He notices a disfigurement on the face of Belechel: long dark streaks of some slimy oil, slowly spreading as they are carried downstream. The oar-blades are stained. He sniffs a new vapour, nasty and poisonous, the stench of some kind of burning.
On the west bank the black scum is deep about the poles of the jetty and the reeds and grasses have withered. Athelstan moors the boat, steps out of it and advances into the mist.
The greyness begins to thin out a little, revealing dark heights and ridges that are quite unfamiliar: as if he has already wandered away from the ferry into a hilly or mountainous region, even though he knows that the land is flat for miles on this side of the River. Now a great mound of rock seems to loom up just ahead: crowned with bushes, as it might be, or tall standing stones.
The head of the dragon lies flat on the ground, fifteen yards away, and the terrible eyes of the dragon are staring at him.
Athelstan goes down on one knee. ‘Greetings, Lord Fëaruk,’ he says, projecting his voice expressively like an actor. He gets down on both knees and spreads his hands. ‘Hail, almighty one, Lord of the World, omnipotent Worm, greatest, chiefest, noblest and best of living beings, before whom I am indeed as a common worm of the earth!’ He takes off his crown and casts it down before him; it jingles and dances on the pebbles, and the dragon’s tall, high-tufted ears twitch forward. Athelstan bows forward until his forehead rests on the polluted ground. He rubs his face into the dirt. ‘See, Your Almightiness,’ he says, ‘how I abase myself before you. Although verily unworthy to tread the earth on which you have breathed, I yet beseech the favour of an audience. For a rival has entered my land, and the wells of rock-blood that it contains are not unworthy, I believe, of your attention.’
Fëaruk lifts his head to speak, and the appearance is as of a hill being raised into the sky. His long, long jaw drops down, like a gang-plank, and Athelstan looks into the dark smoking maw. There is a red glow, a faint reflection of deeper fire, in the depths of the darkness. ‘What is that crown?’ he rumbles, and Athelstan’s hair is disturbed by the fuming breath.
‘That is mine, Lord, for I am Athelstan, who am called the King of this land of Enaderth. Look well on me, Lord: judge me with your eyes, try me, search me out and see that I tell no untruth.’
Athelstan has in fact journeyed hither, according to the plan that was made at Berma’s council, with the resolved purpose of deceiving the dragon: no easy task. No easy task at all. He feels the formidable strength of Fëaruk’s mind bent upon him.
‘Say on.’
‘Behold, one has come into my land, one Swin or Eofor, styling himself Son of Calessar and heir to the throne of the North. He has a sword that he declares to be of elvish make; and he boasts that even your own omnipotent Majesty has no power over him, he having been delivered from death, remade and reborn: which, though a manifest and outrageous lie, is believed by many of my people. He has gathered them to him, and he has vowed that no dragon shall ever drink the blood of the rocks of Enaderth; and though an imposter, he is valiant and very strong, so that I now tremble for the safety of my throne. Wherefore, hearing that you were at our gates, I stole away privily to confer with you.’
‘Stand up, poltroon,’ says the dragon grimly. ‘If this impostor be in truth that Eofor whom I have met, he is twenty times the man you are. Tell me of his looks.’
‘Red-haired, Your Almightiness, and red-bearded, and blue-eyed; not above the middle height of Men, but broad in the chest and shoulder; and he has strange scars on his neck and body. He is cheerful, Lord, he laughs and sings confidently, and he boasts that he knows the answer to a riddle you desire to solve.’
The great head is suddenly lifted higher; the eyes flash like polished steel, and the words of the dragon’s next speech come with smoke and searing heat:
‘What is this riddle?’
Athelstan repeats a verse which he has made up himself, composed specially for the occasion:
Before my death I wish to inquire
Of him who slays me, concerning desire:
Don’t you love the riddles that I can inspire
As I swallow ash, and exhale green fire? Who am I?
Fëaruk hears him out, then blinks in concentration, making an intense effort to solve the puzzle. His fires die down and he goes slightly cross-eyed. Then he dismisses the matter. The silver irises slide outward and hold Athelstan once again.
‘Well, kinglet, so you have taken new counsel in the matter of the rock-blood?’
‘Assuredly, O Almighty One, for what rumour or report could ever do justice to the tremendous greatness of Lord Fëaruk? What prudent mind should not be driven to new wisdom at the coming of his might, at the vision of his unbelievable splendour?’
The eyes are glazed with sudden red fury, though the head remains still.
‘You’re a subtle worm, a slippery dangerous wretch, that I do perceive! Why waste more breath on you? Stand still, manikin, remain where you are, and I will rend you with my foot.’
With a noise as of some dreadful engine of destruction, the huge claws come grinding forward.
‘Stay, Almightiness, hear me!’ cries Athelstan desperately. ‘If you will slay this pretender, and confirm me as your under-king, I will make your slaves and the Queen’s surveyors acquainted with all the wells of rock-blood that are in my land. For I know that you, even Your own Almightiness, cannot come at the rock-blood without the help of Men; and they themselves cannot swiftly discover the wells without the help of my own people. New drink, new casks of golden wine shall you have without stint, and this ere the fall of the year: if you will but confirm me on my throne as you have confirmed the kings of the North. This I swear on the throne of my forefathers, and to this I will set my name in blood.’
There is a pause. ‘Ingenious,’ sneers the dragon, his voice falling like thunder from the misty sky. ‘You would lie more glibly than any courtier, I see; you would perjure yourself and your throne and the bones of your ancestors, if you’ve got any: for you know that your words must weigh with me. How shall I find this rival of yours?’
‘May it please Your Almightiness,’ answers Athelstan, ‘I have had a trail of flags laid out –’
A sheet of fire. ‘Hah! Flags?’
‘Flags, assuredly, Your Lordship; red flags and banners all of the same colour, every few miles across the kingdom. Your Lordship may see them from the air, and they will guide you in a line to the old castle of Bridburg, sixty leagues from here, where the pretender has taken up his abode. The first one is just on the other side of the River, as you will see when the mist rises. So flying, in a straight line, Your Lordship’s speed will outstrip any possible messenger, and there will be no news of your coming. Once arrived at Bridburg, Your Almightiness’s own wisdom must direct your course; but I think that it will be hard for Eofor, if challenged, to refuse battle.’
‘Very well. Pick up that jingling crown of yours, you puny traitor, and begone. Your life is spared for now. Yet if I discover that you have deceived me in any particular, you shall die in tortures worse than the slowest of flame...
‘Go!’
Athelstan prostrates himself once more; he clutches at the crown, gathers his cloak round his shoulders and stumbles away on the muddy, slippery ground. He does his best to act the part of a skulking traitor, but a great weariness is on him and his knees are shaking now with real terror. He sits down in the boat. He rows it back, and the sense of stain and pollution is deeper than before. He reaches the other bank; his men gather round to welcome him.
‘Give me your arm, son.’
Prince Thoronhir puts out a strong arm and helps him from the rocking boat. ‘Is all well, father?’
‘Well enough. I think he’s swallowed the hook. But I’m sick and weary. We’ll sit here for a while and see what he does.’
An hour passes. A little breeze starts up. The mist begins to move along the River. Overhead, a blueness becomes perceptible. The broad scarlet banner, raised up between two poles, gives a stir and a faint thrum.
Then suddenly the enormous, terrifying form is upreared against the sky. The head tilts back and spits out a golden flame. The wings are raised and spread from the summit of the high-arched body. Slowly at first, with monstrous deliberation, and then with increasing speed and power, they begin to flap. The vapours writhe and are scattered away. A final tremendous effort lifts the snake-loop high into the air. Head and tail follow, unbending it into a straight, flexible line, and the dragon is airborne, silvery-white, glittering in the high sunbeams and already approaching fast. Another blast of fire produces a stormcloud of black smoke, which Fëaruk cuts through and leaves behind, seeming to shed it like a garment. The men see the glint of his eyes. He sweeps overhead and is on his way.
They watch him disappear on his south-east course, until their senses have recovered from the buffeting and peace has returned to the riverbank.
‘Make the signal,’ orders Athelstan.
Half a mile away from the first flag, the first of the beacons has also been prepared: a tall stack of firewood, drenched in the black blood of the rocks, waiting for a spark.
Not only the straight line of flags, but a curved line of beacons has also been made ready, bent away from the dragon’s path so that he cannot see the message which will overtake him after all, the message which Bridburg has been vigilantly awaiting since the hour of Athelstan’s departure. There have never been fewer than three lookouts stationed on the keep, and of course there are many surprise inspections by their commanders, or Swin, or the sons of Athelstan, or Maewiel herself. The men keep watch faithfully although the signal is very unlikely to come for at least four days. The King must travel through the land, organise the setting-up of the flags and the building of the beacons, and leave one of his own earls to command a similar group of lookouts at every stage.
During the first two days Swin does make an occasional visit to the top of the tower, but for most of the time he sits alone, brooding on all the events that have taken place and preparing himself for his last encounter with Fëaruk. The plan, which seemed sound and even brilliant to the company gathered after lunch with Berma, now strikes him as utterly preposterous: having no particularly weak point, true enough, yet being weak in its entirety, flimsy as a sword-shaped piece of touchwood. He thinks of death and oblivion, of the darkness of the grave-mound and of bones charred to cindery lumps; he thinks of Garholt, its woods and pastures, of lines of riding warriors, of the mound of his father and mother, and of poor Brydda, cast out with her brat to beg from door to door. He thinks of Athelstan, and Gauriel, and Melohtar, and strangely enough the remorse that now rises in him, the new regret for the ending of this best of friendships, is keener than the other sorrows.
Sometimes, to distract himself, he plays a game of chess with Alfir. The latter is reckoned an excellent player and at first he and Swin are matched quite evenly. But by the end of this period Swin is winning every game. His mind has never been working better. He feels very alert, and has little desire for sleep, being haunted by terrors during the watches of the night – vague dreams of blindness, of dragon-masks with empty eyes. Once a day he saddles Colwine and takes him out along the King’s Riding, a broad level stretch of ground, studded with large trees, that leads to a low knoll from which the second-last of the flags is visible on a hilltop, half a mile away. The last (or first) of the flags is to be upheld on this knoll by Swin himself.
Days go by. Conversation dies within the castle walls, and the silence seems to be pulled like a cord, tighter and tighter, becoming hard to endure. Now Swin comes to the keep more often and spends long hours with the lookouts, staring fixedly at the distant beacon-hill. But the birds that constantly wheel round the tower seem friendly and reassuring.
During this time, the one out of all the castle’s occupants who becomes most distinct to Swin’s mind is not Alfir but the reticent Dreng. Bryd has also remained in the castle, having apparently obtained her discharge from Caras Gulwen, but she keeps to her room, and she and Swin no longer have anything to say to each other. Swin is chiefly aware of Dreng as the man he has – however forgivably, granted that this man and his wife had then been separated for twenty years, and that the wife had little expectation of ever seeing her husband again, far less of seeing him so soon – cuckolded. Swin has an extra sensitivity for Dreng, and he becomes aware of being himself studied by this man; at midday on the fifth day they are both on the tower, with the three guards, and Dreng beckons him to a corner of the parapet. Square-built and grizzled, with strong hands and a lined, sunburnt face, he begins abruptly.
‘Begging your pardon, my lord,’ he says: ‘Have you thought about what comes after this?’
‘If all goes well? If I do slay him?’ Dreng nods. ‘Hardly.’
‘Well, I understand, from what I’ve heard, my lord, that you’ll be wanting to claim the Northern Kingdom, as is yours by right.’
‘Yes,’ says Swin bleakly, looking him in the eye.
Dreng returns his gaze. ‘And how many soldiers, my lord, do you reckon the King of the North – beg pardon, that should be the Queen – how many soldiers she’s got?’
Swin recollects. ‘The soldiers are mustered by the barons, of course, and she’s got to rely on them. Still, assuming loyalty all round – let’s say twenty-four legions? Fifty thousand men?’
‘Sounds about right. And how many have you got?’
Swin keeps up the tight-lipped stare.
‘Well, you take my point, my lord. But here’s me, asking if I can be number one on the army list.’
‘Dreng, I’m honoured,’ Swin says slowly. ‘You’d like to ride north with me?’
‘Aye. And Bryd can take charge of the camp for us, if so be Your Lordship’s willing. But you’ve not done much campaigning? Not commanded many battles?’
‘No. Whereas you’ve done much. Tell me, what brought you here? You were in the service of the King of the south – what are the deserts like?’
Dreng brushes these questions away. ‘Some other time, my lord. My real point is, Bryd and me, we want to go back to our own land. I want to set eyes on my daughter who I ain’t never seen, and we want a place of our own again. But things up there has got ruined so bad, that there wouldn’t be much point in going, except along of a man such as yourself, sir. One with a bit of green witchcraft in his pocket. One with the Lady’s blessing.’
‘You put a lot of trust in me,’ says Swin, temporising a little weakly.
‘Ah, trust! Did you know that the last King of the South was murdered by two of his sons? Royalty is the most untrustworthy of folks. King Athelstan, now, he talks a deal too much about his trust and his frithgild, and the more he talks, the less do I trust him. Which is another reason why I want to get hence. I don’t like this land. Oh look, it’s starting.’
‘What’s starting?’ says Swin, glancing round. ‘And what’s the point of all this talk?’
‘What I mean,’ says the irritated Dreng, ‘is what I say! If I don’t trust you, my lord Swine –’ his eyes at last blazing with unmistakable anger – ‘I do trust the Lady’s power what she’s put in you! She’s told me to help you in your venture, so I reckon I will, and that’s the end of it. Now get along!’
While he has been speaking the watchmen’s postures have changed.
‘Is it the signal?’ asks Swin. ‘Where?’
‘On the hill, sonny!’
Swin stares at the distant beacon-hill, angry, perplexed and a little frightened. He is aware of that dimness of sight which he first noticed at Caras Gulwen. But soon, straining his eyes, he is able to discern the faint white column, rising, leaning and melting into the almost windless afternoon.
‘To arms! To arms! To arms!’
The tocsin clangs and the castle is filled with alarm and bustle. Alfir sends a detachment of guards down to the cells: the prisoner Berven is to be released and escorted up to the ramparts. Another guard goes as a messenger to the Dwarves. Swin hurries to the stable. He allows his friend Dulinir to colour his face, neck, arms and knees – all the exposed parts of him – with ruddle, the dust of bright rust-red clay. He puts on a red tunic, red breeches and leggings, and a scarlet headstall is put on Colwine. He puts on his new helmet, and a light breastplate that has been painted red, and hangs Lydagnir at his belt; and he takes up a large heavy shield, plain gules with no device.
He mounts Colwine, and Dulinir rides after him as a standard-bearer. This standard is the last of the flags, and is different from all the others: a great red boar ramps on a white ground.
They reach the knoll. Fëaruk has not yet come in sight. Receiving the standard from Dulinir, Swin commands him to return to the castle.
Colwine stands patient and still, sensing doom. Swin sits facing west, towards the next range of hills. He can just about see the next marker, a scrap of red at the upper end of a field of stubble, but he is terribly worried about his eyes. The standard-pole is planted on the turf. Sometimes a light wind blows it out a little. Not enough. Swin hoists the pole into the air and waves it back and forth with one arm, allowing the thin bright cloth to stream out, blindly signalling to his unseen foe.
The birds are hushed, with the usual quiet of early August. The sun is hot, the sky filmy and blue. The countryside is deserted: warned by the castle bell, the peasants have all left their work and taken refuge in their homes, or within the town or the castle itself. Swin feels very lonely and very small. His blood pounds in his ears, obscuring their sensitivity to the dragon’s wingbeats. He puts the standard down for a while, wipes his brow and then goes on signalling with his other arm.
Many are now anxiously watching from the keep. At last they see Fëaruk coming like a tiny silver dart, high up in the vast dome of the sky. They cannot tell whether or not Swin has seen him yet. In any case Swin must make sure that the dragon has seen him before he gallops away. The silver shape grows larger.
Slowly.
And there is a moment when – the long body and wings having become discernible – the worm seems to falter in the sky. The wings, no longer rising and falling, are turned, raked backwards like the blades of a barb. Fëaruk begins to glides down.
Is it a hum, or a whine – a thin distant scream of the air? Swin lets the boar-standard fall on the grass. Fëaruk, diving at him head-on, is a weird ghostly shape floating down through the sky, the head appearing as a darker mass in the midst of a shining, globular body, the spines lined up in a single cluster, the backswept wings hardly noticeable, the fierce claws, reaching forward, well-remembered, alone reminding Swin of his extreme peril. He draws his sword and brandishes it defiantly: perhaps Fëaruk’s far-sighted eyes can take in the details of the blade. All this while Colwine has been motionless, showing his mettle. Swin sheathes Lydagnir, takes up the reins and gently kicks his steed with spurless heels.
Swiftly Colwine’s paces quicken to a gallop. The green expanse of the Riding begins to unroll before Swin with giddy speed, the trees hurtling to left and to right and out of his field of vision. The horse’s movement becomes a pounding surge, smooth but terrific, faster than Swin has ever ridden on any horse before, but Fëaruk is coming still faster behind them. Swin snatches a quick look back. There is that prodigious shape, much bigger now, hanging in the air, weightless and unthinkable like some perversion of nature. Black smoke and golden flame bloom outwards from the nostrils: Fëaruk is sending the blast of his rage ahead of him, knowing that somehow he has been audaciously tricked. The infuriating figure of the little red rider appears and disappears among the trees, a tease, an irresistible lure, continuing to the right of the town and the old castle, which Fëaruk has no time to give any attention to. He threshes with his tail, adding yet more power to his dive, and the sound of his coming is a tremendous roar, mingled with the crackling of eager flames, the bangs and thunderclaps of exploding trees. A second blast comes forth, more sustained than the first: Swin finds himself riding through a leaping, blistering cloud like a fiery net thrown forward to catch him; his face is hot, Colwine’s hide is scorching; and then they are in the clear again, galloping forward on charred turf amid the anguish of burning trees. Fëaruk has caught up. But for the moment the speed of his fury has betrayed him: to fly lower means instant destruction: he must pass on and rise up to slow down, then hunt his prey more deliberately. The incredible length of the monstrous grey belly passes overhead. Swin has reached the end of the Riding. Beyond lies another stretch of pastureland, and then the Sea. Colwine tenses himself, and leaps a high hedge.
Much now depends on whether Fëaruk banks to left or right. If he turns right, Swin’s course is simple – he must ride forward, hell-for-leather, towards the old ruined lighthouse that stands near the edge of the cliffs, where the teeth of the prepared trap can close. But no. Swin groans inwardly as the long silver shape curves to the left. For a split-second he imagines riding that way nonetheless – attempting to pass below the dragon’s mouth before the creature has found him again – but no, too late, Fëaruk has seen him and is stooping, his long jaw smiling with deadly malice.
So now, in the hot afternoon sun, amid the rough pasture and scrub on the edge of the high cliffs, must be played a fateful game of cat-and-mouse. Swin has some speed, and full control over his courageous horse; Fëaruk has far greater speed, and his weapon of deadly flame, but cannot easily turn. Colwine is tired, but Fëaruk himself must also be somewhat tired after his long flight. Yet Fëaruk has no object beyond Swin, Fëaruk has all the time in the world, while for Swin, not the least of the considerations streaming through his brain is the vital necessity of keeping the game going. Should Fëaruk merely land, the trap will almost certainly fail. A third time the dreadful fire comes round the horse and rider. Once again they are able to emerge from it, burning and coughing, having avoided the full strength of the blast. The slow minutes stretch out into an eternity of thudding hooves, pouring sweat, blinding sun, stink of burnt grass and horse-hair, dry thistles and gorse, smoke, flame, blue sky and the sight of that upreared head, dark against the light, looking down with glazed and gloating scorn. Closer and closer he pounces, with certainty of soon winning the game. Swin charges directly towards the cliff-edge, intending to swerve aside at the last moment, but as Colwine sees the precipice he rears up with a screaming neigh of terror; he turns aside of his own accord, throwing Swin from the saddle, and the claws pass through the air, through the space Swin occupied a half-second earlier. Colwine gallops away. Swin rolls over and stands. Fëaruk’s whole length disappears below the level of the cliff – what Swin was hoping for. He now has a clear path to the ruined tower.
He has already discarded the shield. He now unbuckles his belt, swiftly unfastens the scabbard with Lydagnir still inside, does up the belt again and begins his run.
The dragon laboriously climbs back into view; rises, spots his prey and readies himself for the kill.
Meanwhile, two miles away, some of Athelstan’s people have caught sight of another dragon’s head. It is much smaller, with a round gaping mouth and a long neck. It pokes out of a new chasm, a dark slot cut into the lower slope of Bridburg hill.
Swin feels the air become hot behind him, hears the roar of Fëaruk’s descent, and pushes himself to the extremity of his own speed.
The tower.
A dull bang away on his left, and the impression of something passing overhead – and then a blinding glare...
...And those who watched from the battlements maintain that the Sun itself, for a short moment, left its place, made a sudden skip, was positioned just above the spiny back; and smote that wicked worm with the strength of its own superior fire...
And then flicked back to its place, leaving their eyes painfully dazzled, and sending a blast of sound that hit their ears like a close thunderclap.
Swin himself would not have survived the assault of Naurang if he had not been providentially shielded by the body of Fëaruk. Even so, he is flattened by the shock of air that follows the blast, and does not see what the watchers see: how the vast form drops out of the hellish cloud, blackened, half-disjointed and no longer sustained by its broken wings; burning, trailing its own smoke-plumes, whether escaped from the furnaces of its torn lungs or emitted from the roasting of its own flesh; how Fëaruk falls down, still coiling sluggishly in mid-air, and then hits the ground with a soft but earth-shaking blow.
Above him the dark cloud of smoke rises and expands.
After some agonized coughing and retching Swin is able to force himself to his feet. He has been burned, he knows, perhaps badly, but that does not seem to matter now. He sees the desolation wrought by the aharuklir, the clifftops all scorched and burned black, the dry grass and bushes still aflame. He sees his fallen foe. He has the sense of some new and all-encompassing wrongness, a kind of black novelty of evil far worse than anything encountered before.
Fëaruk is still alive, still slowly coiling and quivering. He is wounded so horribly that Swin cannot at once look straight at him; but Swin sees that the task has still to be completed.
He walks wide of the dragon. He returns over the burning ground, as briskly as he can, and fetches his sword, which he finds without much difficulty. He leaves the hot scabbard. He returns with Lydagnir shining in his hand.
The dragon has twisted over onto its back, one hind-foot deeply furrowing the earth, one foreleg raised, the claws convulsively opening and shutting and clenching the air. Jets of black blood are spouting from the body, with a landslide of that thicker substance that Swin remembers so well. He can see the torn chest and the grey ribs laid bare. The neck is curved round the base of the smouldering tower.
Swin walks round the tower. Fëaruk’s head is upside-down at the end of the grey neck; a silvery eye rolls and turns as Swin comes up. Beyond the nightmarish head, the horizon of the calm blue sea is like a distant, unattainable refuge, a dream of peace. Here and now is only horror. A task still to be done.
The head rocks from side to side, and rises a little before thudding down.
‘Hi,’ says Swin.
A deep gurgle comes from the throat, and an oily, glistening stream of blood flows down from the side of the muzzle, and the jaw rises, like a sloping roof being lifted from one side of a ruined house. Fëaruk is trying to speak.
‘Sorry? What was that?’
The deep noises become articulate: ‘Fool. Fool. Blind fool.’
Swin sighs. ‘Likely enough,’ he says sadly, ‘but there was the matter of a certain riddle, was there not? Before your death, do you wish to enquire? Or have you worked out the answer?’
‘Tell me. Tell.’
Swin stoops, gathers up a handful of the hot pulverised soil and lifts it up in Fëaruk’s sight. The dust trickles through his fingers and blows away. ‘The Earth. Yabeth, the Mother-Goddess whose power resurrected me. She can swallow a lot of ash, but you were slaying her: you were likely to be her death at last. But now, you who were the foe of the Mother shall be slain by me whom she brought back to life.’
But a huge eyelid clangs downwards, and a silvery eye blazes with sudden impatience.
‘Fool! You mortals, as I perceive, have smelted the heavy ores, have unlocked the secret fires. And in this you yourselves, fools, you and your sly dissembler, your treacherous king...’ The dragon coughs and belches in agony, shaking all over and tipping his jaw higher. A shower of black blood, mixed with great twisted clots of burning phlegm, falls all around. ‘Know you not, fool, that this new weapon must inevitably turn against her with injury far worse than I could ever inflict? You have unbound a deadly charm, you have written runes of power that can never be erased. Dark-hearted Men, how shall you ever desist from seeking out such a weapon and using it again and again? For this, you Boar with the Elvish Sword, your guilt is blacker than mine. For this children yet unborn, and the Earth herself shall curse your name. For this your infamy shall stand –’
‘Oh, have done with your cursing,’ Swin has begun to shout in anger: ‘Stop! Stop! Shut up!’
The oozing dribbling head rocks from side to side. ‘I can no longer punish your insolence,’ says Fëaruk, ‘yet I think you already feel – the curse coming home to roost – do you not? For you, that black dust means naught but blindness – and futile perishing.’
Swin shudders. He masters himself. ‘First go into your own darkness, worm,’ he says firmly.
‘No,’ says the voice, in sudden cold despair: ‘let me live.’
‘No, Fëaruk,’ says Swin. ‘Mercy would be wasted on you.’
The dragon does not speak again. Swin walks away from the head. People have come from the town and are now approaching over the fields. He does not wait for them. He looks at the dragon’s exposed chest, where the hide has peeled away from the ribs. The bones are as thick as great tree-trunks, though small in proportion to Fëaruk’s size: like the ribs of a snake. They formed a slanting wide-runged ladder that he can climb, still holding his sword in one hand.
He comes up close; he pushes between the living bones and peers into the caverns of scalding, glistening blackness. He sees a dark marbled surface still slowly bulging and collapsing, rising and falling...
Resolutely Swin thrusts in the long blade. Lydagnir pricks the dragon’s heart. Swin leaps backwards to avoid a fresh deluge of blood. Fëaruk gives a great shiver and a harsh death-cry, and his face becomes a lifeless mask.