"Yes-yes," Elrik chirped, shuffling after him. His quill scratched across paper, listing an arsenal for hunting not just a dragon, but a legend. And for a man ready to become a legend or die trying.
Saigo crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze – an icy scalpel – sliding over the suit of plate armor Elrik had wheeled out with near-religious reverence. "No."
"But… this is the armor of Reigald the First himself – the First Legionnaire! He was a legendary Dragonslayer, his steel…" Elrik patted the breastplate with its embossed dragon.
"Heavy. And doesn't fit. And it's crap, no matter how much you polish it. Do something useful." Saigo cut him off mercilessly. He'd seen such "legendary" trophy junk on the battlefield – rusty, punctured, dragging its owners to the bottom of rivers or under horses' hooves.
"I'll take standard riveted leather armor. And…" his gaze darted across the racks, searching for a familiar silhouette, "…that cloak. From the last mission in the Isgard swamps."
Elrik sighed in dismay: "It's not here, brother. Sent for cleaning and repair after… mmm… the incident with the acid slimes."
"Pity."
"Then this!" Elrik deftly tossed a bundle onto the table. It unfurled into a dense, yet surprisingly light fur cloak. The fur shimmered with a frosty blue hue under the torchlight.
"Made from an Ice Troll's hide. Anti-magic treatment, holds heat better than a furnace. In dank caves – just the thing. Though…" he smirked, "…knowing you, it's foolish to think a draft would bother you."
"Seems that's all," Elrik muttered, checking the list.
"No," Saigo stabbed a finger in the air, as if puncturing an invisible item. "Potion sets. First and ninth."
Elrik's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline: "First – understood: healing, stimulants, antitoxins. But the ninth? For underwater work?! What do you need that for?"
"The caves might be flooded." – "Write, Elrik, don't chatter." Saigo's voice brooked no argument.
"Also add: Smoke bombs – three. Regular, not magical. Heavy throwing knives – a full belt. Mithril wire – a hundred meters. Food tablets for a week. Stimulant pills and water. In a proper flask. Not one of your travel wineskins."
He finished, mentally running through the equipment list: artifacts, weapons, potions, consumables. Nothing superfluous.
"Well then…" Elrik exhaled, scribbling quickly in the journal. "That's everything. It'll be ready by dusk. I'll assemble it personally."
"Excellent," Saigo was already turning to leave, his shadow dancing on the vault walls.
Having dealt with Elrik and received assurances the arsenal would be waiting in his chambers by noon, Saigo headed not to the training halls, but to the very heart of the Clan's knowledge – the Library.
An enemy, especially one like this, needed to be known not just by sight – but to the bone, to its habits, to its weaknesses. Heavy oak doors, banded with steel, swung open soundlessly before him, admitting him into a realm of silence, centuries of dust, and the rustle of pages.
Between endless shelves, groaning under the weight of folios, scrolls, and encrypted grimoires, he found the keeper – Sister Ilvira.
Fragile as a dried flower, the old woman with eyes sharp as needle points sat at a carved desk. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but remarkably clear, like a stream finding its way through stone.
"Greetings, Brother Saigo," she whispered, not looking up from the manuscript she was binding.
"And to you, Sister Ilvira," Saigo inclined his head.
"The Head warned me. Everything you need is already waiting at your usual spot." She nodded towards the back of the hall, to his favorite, always dimly lit corner with its massive oak table. "Good luck with your reading."
"Thank you." Saigo bowed slightly deeper and headed to the table.
On it lay a sizable stack of knowledge:
"The Deeds of Dragonslayers: From the Dawn Age to the Fall of the Black Spire" – a hefty folio bound in dragonhide (ironically?).
"Draconis Fundamentum: Anatomy, Physiology, and Classification of the Entire Draconic Race" – a scholarly work from the Imperial Academy, bound in simple parchment.
"The Art of the Lone Fang: Tactics for Survival and Slaying Dragons Solo" – a battered manuscript with bloodstains on the pages.
"The Deep-Delver's Geological Primer: Caves, Hazards, and How to Avoid Them" – a crude scroll scrawled with angular runes and… expressive Dwarven curses.
A stack of reports and dispatches: Copies from the Imperial archives – watchmen's reports, panicked notes from village elders, and dry accounts from trade expeditions. All about his target.
"Well, let's begin," Saigo muttered, rubbing his hands not in anticipation, but to dispel the chill of what was to come. He immersed himself in reading.
Hour after hour passed. The silence was broken only by the rustle of pages, the scratch of Saigo's quill making notes on a separate sheet, and the rare cough from Sister Ilvira. He didn't underline much, but extracted the essence:
From "Anatomy": Detailed skeletal structure, location of vital organs (heart, brain, magical nodes), thickness and structure of scales for different breeds. Not new, but the visual illustrations and diagrams were priceless. He particularly noted the difference in vulnerabilities between back and belly scales.
From "Deeds of Dragonslayers": Primary tactics – group-based. Flanking, diversionary maneuvers, traps. The only useful thought snatched from the pomp: "Meeting a Dragon in proud solitude – flee without looking back. Otherwise, you'll merely become a proud corpse decorating its lair." Saigo smirked: 'Heh. Not my style.'
"The Art of the Lone Fang" proved a treasure trove. The first thing he noted: "A flying dragon – death in the air. However you can, bring it down to earth!" Not that there was much room to fly in a cave, but the cave's dimensions were unknown to him…
Further – killing methods: from tossing a bomb into its mouth as it breathes flame to hamstringing its tendons. Trap descriptions: spike pits, collapsing ceilings, bogs, quicksand. Much was inapplicable (it was a cave!), but the ideas described spawned concrete plans in Saigo's mind.
"The Deep-Delver's Primer" was a masterpiece of practical wisdom and Dwarven profanity. Saigo noted: dangerous gases (detection methods using a draft or a canary), signs of unstable ceilings, types of natural traps (cave-ins, flooding), advice for moving in pitch darkness and narrow crevices. And also a dozen new, very specific curses.
The Reports: Quality ranged from the sober analysis of an Imperial watch captain: ("Dwarf Black Dragon, morphology – pronounced 'avian-like' traits (sharp beak, long neck, prehensile claws)") to the hysterical tales of terrified peasants ("A winged devil! Eyes like coals from hell! Breathed – turned half the village to ice!").
Key points: confirmation of an extremely aggressive nature and clarification of the magical arsenal (Ice, Fire, Darkness – volumes and observed effects). He supplemented the missing details of magical patterns from "Anatomy," which described dragons' energy channels.
Setting aside the last scroll, Saigo stretched, his knuckles cracking. He looked up.
A narrow arrow-slit window high in the ceiling cast a direct beam of sunlight – dust motes danced in the golden ray.
Noon, which meant it was time for lunch. And for the final preparations before descending into the stone maw of the Black Mountain. He neatly gathered his notes and left the hall.