Winter faded into spring. Spring bloomed into summer. Lindír’s nineteenth summer died, and from its corpse emerged autumn.
There were other stories that Ámnistr told, other towns and cities that they visited. The Drum sang songs, and his mastiff awed the people with flashes of scale and claw and flame. From the forests of Garganland to the hills of Fóthrheim they traveled. Lindír tasted a score of fine meats and a score of sweet pastries from a score of kingdoms, and enjoyed them all. As long as Lindír was at Ámnistr’s side, he was content.
But true happiness eluded him nonetheless. It could not be said that there was anything missing from Lindír’s life traveling with the giant. He had plentiful food, both given in trade and obtained through theft; he had companionship, both from Ámnistr’s lively storytelling and from all of the various humans that he met along the way; he even found some measure of comfort, sleeping sometimes under the giant’s huge fur cloak, or within the hollowed-out drinking halls of their host cities. But when life slowed, when there were no parties nor stories, no great vistas or rolling storms, in the moments just before he was overtaken by sleep, Lindír could not help but feel unfinished.
There was a river of molten rock in the bottom of Lindír’s heart. He didn’t remember when last it had flowed freely, belching ash and toxic gas. Perhaps it had been before his birth, or when he had dreamed of bloodshed and conquest in the dark beneath the Red Citadel, but once it had erupted so fiercely and with such heat that it had carved for itself a long channel in the very bedrock of his being. Now that channel was all but empty, the lava having hardened to black crust. There would be no true happiness so long as Lindír did not know how to make the river of liquid rock flow once more.
The town of Brautarnir lay in the coastal highlands of Gulliheim, a country of mountain ranges and plateaus, where volcanoes showered the sky with red embers and men scratched at the rock to claim ores of every description. Indeed, the town itself would not exist, or would be no more than another village-strewn barley-field, were it not for a deep vein of silver and lead ore found within the colossal heart-rock emerging from the side of the nearby mountain. It lent the whole place a refreshingly toxic air. The small stream which kept the town watered was only barely drinkable, and many of the people who watched Lindír and Ámnistr enter the town were possessed of discolored hands and wheezing lungs.
But though stricken by sickness, the people of Brautarnir were nonetheless friendly folk who welcomed Ámnistr’s arrival with the same shouts and greetings, the same waving hands and bright laughs as did most who met the arrival of the giant troubadour. Lindír was treated with some caution, for good reason, but no unfriendliness. Indeed, he was feeling a bit less cantankerous that day than on any day in the previous month, for the saturation of mining debris in the air and soil made him feel slightly at home.
At the town center, Ámnistr called all around for an introductory song, a jaunty tune about love or some such thing, then went off to speak with the town’s leaders about payment and services. Lindír, meanwhile, spread his wings out upon the earth so as to absorb as much heat as possible from the thin autumn sun while the bravest that Brautarnir had to offer petted at his tail.
A few minutes later, when he happened to open his eyes for a few moments, he saw a most unusual thing. A figure stood near the edge of the town square, their form obscured by a heavy brown cloak, and stared at Lindír with apparent curiosity. They appeared tall for a human, though not as tall as a hellira, and their head was not only not covered by cloth, but bereft of hair altogether. Lindír made eye contact with the strange person, inviting them to approach. He could not manage it for long, though, for almost immediately upon looking at that face he felt a profound discomfort. So he lowered his head back onto the flagstones and resumed napping.
When, some time later, Ámnistr returned, Lindír asked him about the strange being and what they might have been doing.
“Must have been one of the druids,” he said, nodding.
“Druids?” said Lindír.
“Have you no knowledge of druids, nephew? I suppose with an upbringing as isolated as yours…”
“I know what druids are!” Lindír moaned. “But I was under the impression that they tended to be found in isolated forest glens suffused with holy power, or atop mountains or the like.”
“Aye, usually,” Ámnistr said. “But sometimes not. These ones, I hear it, are wandering, begging, seeking truth and wisdom and the like. You should keep away from them.”
Lindír reared back, quirking his head and ruffling his wings with disconcertion. “Why? I thought they were holy folk. And besides, you don’t hold my leash.”
“They are holy folk, yes. But druids can be capricious. They don’t like to be disturbed, I ken it, and a druid's annoyance is sharper than a wasp’s sting.” Ámnistr crouched down low, and spoke quietly. “And the town master told me that these ones have something odd about them. Sinister business. Make strange offers to people, don’t act quite right.”
They talked for a little while longer about how long they would stay, when Lindír would be needed and when he could rest, where allowances would be made for the pair of them to make camp, and other such logistical matters. Lindír was not needed for the first day, and so had the whole of that day to himself. He went to the river first and foremost. The water tasted of metal, and so he guzzled it beyond what was necessary merely to slake his thirst. But he found that it was not suitable for washing. The moment his snout dipped below the water’s surface, the old bands of scar tissue began to burn with irritation.
He then spent a good deal of time sleeping, finding the warmest hill outside of the town upon which to stretch out and absorb heat. When he grew sick of that, he flew, mapping out the hills and mountains and bogs surrounding Brautarnir out of a sense of idle curiosity. Then he descended into the town itself in a vague attempt to seek the attention of the townsfolk. Or perhaps rob the bakery, if he could get away with it.
But it was not long after he landed in the town that Lindír’s thoughts once again turned to the druids that Ámnistr had described. He had seen their encampment from the air, a cluster of small cloth tents around a firepit just beyond the edge of Brautarnir, and he wished to know why one of them had given him such odd attention. Ámnistr’s warning did nothing to dissuade him. Indeed, though he would not have admitted it were he asked, it gave Lindír a secondary motivation: to prove that he did not need to follow the Drum’s instructions in order to succeed.
Lindír trotted through the streets to the edge of the town, then crept over the rocky terrain to reach the small camp he had seen. It was not until he stood atop a gravel-strewn hill and looked down on the camp that he became sure that this was the home of the druids, but there was no mistaking it up close. Firstly, of course, there was the fact that all of them wore similar accoutrements, off-white robes and wreaths of woven branches, staffs of unshaped wood and belts of grass. Their camp, too, bore signs of druidic activity, as the smoke which hung about it was tinged with sour-smelling herbs.
There were perhaps ten druids present, or maybe less, for they moved in odd ways which made it difficult to keep count. The tall, pale, bald one was nowhere to be seen. But as Lindír approached, they turned about at once, forming into a semicircle. One stepped forward.
She was about as tall and as slender as the bald one had been, but was otherwise totally unlike in every way. Her skin was a rich, cool coppery tone, and though her hair was kept neatly out of her eyes with a few ribbons, its tight curls were long and rich and silky, utterly beautiful in nearly every way. She bore the evidence of hardship on her face as well; a few small scars marked the round of her lips, and another lay just above one of her treacle-black eyes.
“Hello, dragon. May I ask your name?”
“Lindír. Lindír Heimirsson.” Even in years of traveling at Ámnistr’s hip, Lindír had gained no worthy title. Nevertheless, he bowed before her. And when she gave him no name, he gave her one in his mind: Storm-hair.
Storm-hair did not bow, but she did lower her head slightly in a show of respect. “Lindír Heimirsson. A beautiful name, for a dragon of such majesty. Tell me, Lindír Heimirsson, why have you come to our camp?”
Lindír was so shocked as to be nearly taken aback. Ámnistr had called him a good nephew, a good lad, called him a charmer on some occasions. But never majestic. “Curiosity, I suppose. I have never met a druid before.”
“And I have rarely met a dragon,” said Storm-hair. “But now that I have, would you be willing to listen? We have a great need, you see, and a dragon’s might stands decent odds of being the very thing that will bring that need to a close.”
“Your need?” Lindír said. “Has some tragedy befallen you?”
A ripple passed through the crowd of the ascetics, so perfect in reaction to Lindír’s words that not even choreographed motion could have been so. Many averted their eyes, or frowned severely, or clutched at their hearts. “Yes,” Storm-hair confirmed. “And compared to the others of our sect, we are the lucky ones.”
Storm-hair focused herself on Lindír with a look of passionate grief, pleading for aid with a hope-sodden glance. “Once, our sect contained scores of druids. We dwelt in a holy place, secluded and beautiful, where we could commune with the gods. But some months ago, an unbound draugr came upon our refuge, and turned it into its lair. It slaughtered or captured all of our brothers and sisters, and though we few managed to escape, it still dwells there now.”
Lindír knew little of draugr. They had never been mentioned in the stories or teachings of his youth, where the most common villains were cruel dragons, foolish trolls, or the sinister homunculi of the Under-Queens. Ámnistr’s songs mentioned them, but not often, and never in detail. More often than not they were only invoked as metaphor, the idea of a draugr used as a symbolic representation of terror, grief, fear, hate, and suffering. Whatever they were, they were so terrible as to be essentially taboo. As for what it meant for one to be “unbound”, he had no idea whatsoever; but with the way Storm-hair spoke the words, he knew that it meant something even worse.
Lindír instinctually pulled back, crouching low with his tail and wings tucked close to his sides. “Are you certain that I am up to the task of driving off this draugr? I assume that is what you wish of me.”
“We have wandered for nearly a season without home or succor, begging to survive and seeking shelter where we can,” said Storm-hair. “In all that time, you are the only potential champion we have found. I do not wish to place too great a burden on you, but you may well be our sole hope of salvation.”
“But could I fight a creature so… horrible as an unbound draugr?” Lindír said. “Or would it simply do to me as unbound draugr are wont to do?”
“Perhaps,” Storm-hair said without fear. “But are dragons, true dragons, not brave? Are you not the greatest of warriors and reavers, who take all foes before them with contempt and unbeatable might?”
“Your scales will turn aside its blade!” said one of the crowd.
“Your eyes will see through its illusions!” said another.
“Your flames will purify the draugr’s rot!”
With perfect unity, the crowd moved closer, leaning together to listen for Lindír’s response. Storm-hair remained out in front, taking a step forward, looking up at him with pleading eyes and a smile of true hope. All attention was on Lindír.
He had to admit that all that they had said about the draconic species was true. Aside from the weak spot over his heart and the scar-lines around his muzzle, Lindír could not imagine any creature which could penetrate his scales, nor any creature which could survive his flames intact. And of course he was wise and canny enough to see through any illusion or falsehood. It was a good feeling, having his power acknowledged so, and he allowed himself to show it, puffing out his chest slightly and fluttering his wings.
At length, Lindír said, “I shall do what I can. But you must understand that I have not come here alone; my traveling companion, Ámnistr the Drum, will have to hear of this.”
“Of course,” Storm-hair said. “Perhaps he might even be convinced to accompany us, to record the story of your heroism in song. That would be a proper reward.”
“Yes, it would be!” Lindír said, nodding his head agreeably.
“But be quick!” Storm-hair said.“I know not what sort of torments are faced by our brothers and sisters whom the draugr has kept captive. Every day we tarry may be the day when it is too late.”
With that threat hanging over his head, Lindír set off at once. He launched himself into the air, looking about until he saw where Ámnistr was waiting. Whatever performance he had been tasked to make that day, it was over by then, and the giant sat on a small boulder, carefully tuning the strings of his hurdy-gurdy with a block of rosin in one hand.
Lindír landed with a heavy thump on the hard, intoxicated earth, and without preamble began to explain all that had transpired. Ámnistr had to calm him down, force him to shove down the glowing pride in his chest, long enough for Lindír to explain the whole story in a coherent order and legible speed. After Lindír was done, Ámnistr sat for a while in thought, stroking his beard as he did, his expression turning increasingly towards a frown.
“You’re not going to go with them, nephew,” he said grimly. “I can’t fault you for not being able to see it, as a man of your age; but you’re being tricked.”
