5
Gotha finally touched claw to land upon an islet that stood in lonely isolation, rising a little higher than the gray seas about its bleak shore. The barren rockpile was crested by a low hill, and near the rounded summit, Gotha discovered a cave. The natural cavern did not approach the grandeur of the magnificent lair he had once claimed, but it was a dwelling that would serve him well for the task at hand.
Next he went about exploring the islet, knowing that it was not huge but having earlier seen evidence of human habitation. The beast prowled the rock in the dark of the night, stalking the land like a huge hunting cat. Wind howled, and sheets of rain drenched him, but Gotha pressed on, unmindful of the weather.
The dracolich came upon a small pasture of sheep and gleefully slayed the stupid creatures. When their bleating brought a shepherd forth, the hideous monster disemboweled the wretch with one quick slash of his foreclaw, deriving even more pleasure from this killing.
Creeping across the fogbound isle, the dragon-beast found more huts-dwelling places for lone shepherds and fishermen mostly, though in one place, he encountered a dozen or more buildings clustered together, forming the beginnings of a town.
Gotha's eyes-red orbs that seemed to float in his deep, black sockets-glowed fiercely at the discovery. Slinking silently along the ground, sheltered by the heavy mist and the thickness of the night, the beast coiled in the center of the rude buildings. The structures employed, for their walls and roofs, the wreckage of ships that had been cast upon this lonesome rock, giving each a temporary, haphazard appearance.
From several, Gotha smelled odors that would have once been pleasant: a kettle of boiling fish, a leg of mutton sizzling over a driftwood fire, even the sweet scent of tobacco wafting through the dusk. Now these spoors triggered nothing beyond memory, for the undead dragon no longer felt hunger.
He still, however, lusted for the savage joy of killing
Gotha raised his gaunt head to the sky like a spearhead thrust upward into the night and uttered a bellow of fierce challenge. The force of the sound rang through the night and brought the northmen stumbling from their huts, peering in terror through the mists, trying to see the nature of that which had inspired such deep and primeval dread.
And even as they learned, they died.
Carefully, methodically, Gotha set about making the island his own. The huts and houses of the inhabitants he left intact, save in a few cases in which a desperate human-as often as not, a male with female and young to protect-barricaded himself in his dwelling.
These Gotha dealt with directly, spreading his jaws and belching the murderous gout of flame. His metamorphosis from dragon to lich had not impaired this ability, he swiftly realized. Indeed, it seemed that, if anything, the power of his deadly attack was increased, for the monster blasted six or eight structures in this manner. Previously half this number of explosive fireballs would have exhausted his belly until he had fed well and rested.
The seasoned wood of walls and roofs burned quickly, and in minutes, the inhabitants ceased their pathetic wailing. Those courageous enough to break from their shelter met a faster and more merciful end that was nevertheless just as fatal and violent.
Satisfied that no more humans survived on the small island, the wyrm went to each corpse and tossed it into the sea. The sheep, too, he gathered and killed and tossed into the brine. It wasn't that the gruesome bodies would have affected the dragon in any way. It was simply that this, too, was part of the plan of Talos. Once again Gotha could do naught but obey.
Next he followed the shore of the islet along its full circumference, noting several wooden-hulled fishing boats pulled up beyond the reach of high tide. These he punctured, driving one sharp claw through each keel and then pushing the vessels into the surf, where they quickly foundered and sank. One cove held several slightly larger craft, bobbing at anchor, and these too he sank, crushing the hulls with forceful blows of his massive foreclaws.
Finally the serpent returned to the cave. The rock-enclosed cavern sprawled beyond a narrow niche that cracked the top of the island's tallest summit. Gotha pulled and tore at the rock, widening the entrance and clearing the field of view down the slope. Using the strength of his massive forelegs, he excavated parts of the shelter that did not meet his fancy.
In the course of this quarrying, he collapsed a thin shelf of rock that separated his cave from a lower network of passages. Delighted, he pressed forward in eager exploration. The lower tunnels led to a vast sea cave, where salt water splashed in a great pool. It was low tide, and Gotha could feel the wind scouring past. The tunnel was open to the sky!
This was a splendid discovery, for one of the finest features of any lair was the existence of an escape route to the rear. At low tide, at least, the dracolich would be able to sally forth at sea level.
Gotha crept upward again, toward the large chamber he would claim as his sleeping room and, perhaps later, the site of his hoard. More of his flesh and scale had fallen away during the exertions of his journey and the claiming of the island. His wings were bare outlines of bone, and his ribs showed as white streaks on both sides of his wretched, decaying body.
Yet he felt no weariness, none of the stiffness nor sore muscles that would have plagued him five hundred years ago should he have attempted such a vigorous campaign. No hunger gnawed at his belly. The bites of meat he had taken during the killing had been enough, apparently, to maintain his fiery breath weapon.
Neither did he feel any need to sleep. This, too, he marked as an advantage, since a dragon was always most vulnerable during the time he lay curled in sleep.
Gotha coiled himself, awake, and lay still for a time. His flesh continued to rot, but his evil soul remained as vital as ever. He needed only to wait now for the inevitable commands from his god.
The Raging One spoke to Gotha, then, in the midst of the rain-lashed night.
Instantly the dracolich tensed, hissing smoke from his gaping nostrils and fixing his crimson eyespots on the opposite wall of his cave. 'Give me my task, treacherous one.'
The god may have chortled internally at Gotha's insolence. In any event, Talos did not punish his servant.
'What reign is this? How do we destroy it?'
'And my task?'
Talos the Destroyer was the subject of attention in another part of the isles on this same dark night. To the
