Dragondoom

CHAPTER 21

Early Spring, 3E1602

[This Year]

In wrath, the Châkka emissaries rode out from Jordkeep, heading for Kachar. It was midafternoon when they set forth, midafternoon of the same day that their first-claim on the trove had been rejected by Elgo, the day that negotiations had fallen into ruin. And so, enraged, they rode out from the keep, even though evening drew nigh, for clearly they would choose to spend the night upon the open range rather than spend one single moment more in the company of looters and thieves. How such Folk as these Riders could have heroes’ songs sung in their honor was entirely beyond Baran’s comprehension. After all, heroes were honorable, yet of a certain, this Elgo was a despoiler.

“Kruk!” burst out Baran in rage, slamming fist into palm, his face dark with anger. “These Riders are plunderers!”

“Aye,” growled Odar, the red-bearded Châk who, during the failed parley, had shouted out that the bards were wrong about the number of times the Châkka had tried to retake Blackstone. “By damn, we should have used our axes to shorten the height of that looter Elgo.”

“Mayhap you are right, Odar,” responded Baran, “yet we will see what it is my sire would have us do about these pillagers. Even so, it would give me great satisfaction to wipe the sneer off the face of that one-eyed thief. . and to do it with my axe at that.”

Baran’s remarks brought grim smiles to the faces of the Châkka, and they rode onward; yet even though they smiled, anger seethed in their hearts, for they could not banish from their minds’ eyes the image of Elgo scoffing at their legitimate claim, the Man actually denying that Blackstone and the treasure was the rightful, the true, property of the Châkka.

Slowly the Sun slid downward toward the horizon, shadows from the isolated thickets reaching out over the broad prairie toward the distant downs to the east. And across this greening range fared the pony train of the Dwarves. And when night fell, the Dwarves camped upon the wide flat land alongside a solitary coppice, the gentle hills still lying some few miles away. They had covered five leagues that afternoon alone, fifteen miles all told; yet even though that was a goodly stretch for the ponies to have journeyed in but half a day, still, Baran was frustrated at the time it would take to come unto the gates of Kachar. By land, just over sixty leagues lay between Kachar and Aranor’s castle, one hundred eighty-one miles, a journey of some eight days’ duration for the sturdy steeds of the Châkka, if they pressed as hard as Baran intended, twenty-five or so miles a day.

Dawn found the Châkka leader pacing the perimeter of the camp, champing at the bit to be under way. After a hasty breakfast of crue and water for the Dwarves, and grain and water for the ponies, at last the emissaries set forth, still faring easterly. All day they rode at a hard pace, stopping now and again to feed the steeds a bit of grain and to take care of other needs. At times they dismounted and led the ponies across the now rolling land, giving the mounts relief from the burden of bearing Dwarven warriors. But always they pushed onward. And that day they covered just under thirty miles.

The next day, in midmorn, Bakkar called up column to Baran: “Lord Baran, riders overtake us.”

Baran swung about in his saddle. Some mile or so to the rear he could see a train of Men on horses cantering along their trail. “Stand ready,” he ordered the Châkka. “They look to be Harlingar, and we know not what to expect from their kind. Even so, still they are not likely to violate a grey flag.”

Swiftly the Men drew onward, overtaking the Dwarves. And when they were nearly even, Baran could see that it was Elgo in the lead, the Man to all intents and purposes faring to Kachar to deliver his message in person unto the DelfLord.

Now the Men passed, their green and white standard snapping in the breeze. The Dwarves glared at these looters, receiving like glares in return. But of a sudden, one large oxlike Man went bouncing past, legs thrust outward, spear waving ineffectually in the air, his voice squealing in mock panic. And all the thieves broke into laughter, roaring and sniggering as they rapidly drew away.

To Baran’s right, Odar unslung his crossbow, fire in his eye.

“Nay, warrior!” barked Baran. “That they’ve somehow insulted us, there is no doubt. Yet we ride ’neath a grey flag. Do not dishonor it with an ill-conceived act.”

Clenching his teeth in rage, muscles jumping in his jaw, slowly Odar returned his crossbow to his back, his eyes never leaving the retreating forms of these Riders.

The Châkka rode all that day and the next two, going some seventy-six miles, faring upward into the foothills of the Grimwall Mountains.

Early afternoon of the following day, the sixth since leaving Aranor’s castle, found them camping at the northwestern entrance to Kaagor Pass. They had stopped after going but fifteen miles, for they could not ride the full length of the gap ere the deep night would be upon them; and to cross the twenty-one miles of the pass, half of it in the frigid dark, was too risky at this uncertain time of the year, when sudden snowstorms could still rage at these heights. Cursing with impatience, reluctantly they camped, knowing that but two more days would bring them unto Kachar; even so, still they would arrive two days behind the looters who had gone before them.

What has my sire done with this Man who sacked Blackstone? wondered Baran as he lay his head down that night. Overhead the heavens sparkled with stars, capturing his gaze; and slowly the Châk’s thoughts turned to Elwydd, Bringer of Life. Yet even as he contemplated Her place in the hearts of the Châkka, a bright spark of light streaked across the sky. Swiftly, Baran turned his face away from the spangle above, for falling stars foretold of death to come. Hence, the Dwarf did not see when another eight flared in close succession, followed quickly by four more.

Baran arose before dawn, a sense of doom urging him to set forth now. Hurriedly, he and the last Châk on watch awoke the others, and they broke camp, saddling up the ponies, stowing their gear. Quickly they consumed a meal, feeding the steeds as well. Then they rode into the gap, false dawn faint in the sky. Up along the stony way they travelled, the air about them chill. An hour they fared, and the sky to the east turned pink through orange and then to blue as the hidden Sun came up over a distant horizon unseen beyond the towering flanks of the Mountains of the Grimwall. And deep in the slot of Kaagor, pony hooves clicked upon rock, and the light of the day seeped down toward the shadows, slowly driving them back into the dark cracks whence they came.

At the crest of the pass, the Dwarven column passed before a dark opening upon the right: it was the empty Troll hole of Golga, Ogru of Kaagor.

“So it was this same Elgo who slew Golga, eh?” grunted Bakkar, the Châk now riding near the head of the column.

“Aye,” growled Baran, “by trick! Just as Sleeth was killed-also by trick.”

“Had we taken on the task,” declared Odar, “we would have done it with honor: by Châkka Troll-slaying squad.”

“Hai!” barked Baran. “Many axes are needed to seal a Troll’s doom, for their hides are like unto stone, yet as we have done in the past, so could we do now. And it would be no trick that would lay the Ogru by the heels. Instead it would be Châkka steel!”

On past the hole clattered the ponies, beginning the descent down the far side of the pass.

Long they rode, another five hours or so, stopping occasionally to take care of the needs of steeds and Châkka, yet Baran always feeling the urgency to press on, for a doom seemed to prey upon his mind, though he could not fathom what it might be.

It was mid of day when the Dwarven column came to the southeasternmost extent of Kaagor Pass, and as they neared the exit. .

“Lord Baran, Men on horses come,” grunted Odar, pointing a gnarled finger down the way.

Baran looked, and up the entrance into the pass fared a column of riders. It looked to be the thieving Riders, yet the one-eyed Prince did not seem to be among them.

Slowly, the ponies stepped down along the trail toward the Harlingar, and the horses stepped upward toward the Dwarves. And as the two columns neared one another, of a sudden the col echoed with the challenge of a black-oxen horn, and a rider burst forth from the ranks of the Vanadurin.

At dawn, the Harlingar broke camp in the upland forest bordering the marge of the Grimwall Mountains. It was the morn of the day after Elgo and Bargo had been slain. And although the Harlingar had camped when yestereve had fallen, they had gotten little or no rest, for anguish filled their hearts, and thoughts of vengeance occupied their minds: Elgo was slain! And these grasping Dwarves had been his murderers! Yet there was little they could do, nine against hundreds.

And now it was the next day, and the funeral train of the Vanadurin rode onward, the Men at times weeping in frustration and distress, raging at the Dwarves while at the same time mourning their lost comrades, the bodies now wrapped in the waterproof cloaks of their former owners. Long they rode such, slowly wending their way among the trees, and it was near mid of day when they came again unto Kaagor Pass. Red-eyed with grief, they made their way once more into the gap through the Grimwall Mountains, this time travelling in the opposite direction.

In the lead, Reynor stiffened, and called out to the others, his voice filled with hatred: “See who comes.”

Riding down toward them upon ponies fared Baran and his team of negotiators, bearing a familiar grey flag, heading for Kachar.

Stepping their horses up the trail, the Harlingar watched the Dwarves come onward. In the rear of the Vanadurin column, Brade unsheathed his lance, couching it as if for battle. Casting his eyes at the enwrapped corpses draped across the backs of their steeds, “This is for you, my Lord,” he whispered. “This is for you, Bargo.” Then “Yah!” he spurred his mount forward, lance lowered, aimed at the forefront of the oncoming Châkka. And he blew a blast upon his black-oxen horn, Raw! Raw! Raw! the ancient sound of the charge. Past the other Harlingar he hurtled, thundering up the way, horn blaring, running death upon horseback.

“Hold!” yelled Ruric as the youth charged forth, but to no avail, for Brade was past reason.

The Dwarves unslung their weapons as horse and rider in twenty running strides hammered across the space between and crashed into their ranks, the hard-driven spear shattering upon impact, spitting a Dwarven warrior. Swiftly, Brade’s saber flashed from its scabbard, and he chopped downward at another, only to be felled by a quarrel through his breast.

Now Vanadurin charged forward, lances lowered, their own horns belling: Raw! Raw! Raw!

“Hold, by damn, they be under a grey flag!” Ruric shouted, and raised his own horn to his lips, sounding recall-Hahn, taa-roo! Hahn, taa-roo! — to no avail, for the signal was lost among the knelling calls of the bugling charge. . and then the battle fury was upon the Harlingar, and his horncry was not heard above the din of combat.

With the shattering sound of steel crashing into steel, the Vanadurin whelmed into the ranks of the Dwarves, spears punching through chain even as answering quarrels flew through the air to pierce mail. And amid screams of death, Dwarves were felled by the numbers, but so too were Vanadurin, brought down by crossbow bolts, as was Brade before them. Yet, the lances of the riders and the mass of the horses and the fury of the charge were simply too much for Dwarves upon ponies to withstand. And swift was the slaughter, for seemingly in but a trice, four surviving riders faced but one Châk afoot. And this one would have died as well but that Ruric rode between the lone Dwarf and the four Harlingar, knocking spears aside with his own, shouting, “Stand down! These be emissaries!” his voice finally heard.

Reluctantly the Vanadurin haled back on their steeds, obeying the Armsmaster at last, though their blood yet ran fever hot.

Ruric swung his horse about, facing the lone surviving Dwarf. ’Twas Baran, and he looked up in hatred at the tall Men on their tall horses. “You have no honor,” Baran’s voice lashed out, “for we were under a grey flag. But now I know it be too much to expect a Rider to understand what honor means. Yet I will give each of you a turn at redeeming yourselves: Which of you will meet me first in single combat? Crowd not forward, for you each shall have your chance.”

His face darkening with wrath, Reynor began to swing his leg over his saddle horn, preparing to leap down from his steed and take Baran up on his challenge. “By damn, I said hold!” roared Ruric, glaring at the youth, breaking through the young Man’s shell of anger; reluctantly, Reynor swung his leg back over his saddle.

Again Ruric looked down at the fierce Châk. “Know that our two nations be at War, Dwarf, for your kind ha’ slain our Prince. Yet know this too: that we be merciful.” Ruric gestured at the battleground. “Gather up yer dead, as we shall gather up ours, and hie unto yer hole in the ground and prepare, for we shall return to extract a full vengeance against ye and yers.”

And so it was that when the Vanadurin rode down out of the pass, they bore six dead, slung across horses.

So, too, did Baran fare unto Kachar, a string of nine slain warriors in his wake. And when at last the hooded Dwarf rode unto the gates with his cortege of ponies bearing the dead, all the way up the vale and to the Châkkaholt itself he could hear the mournful sound of the funeral bell slowly tolling out a dirge of death: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom! And he choked upon his grief, for then it was that he knew that Brak his sire was dead, and that he, Baran, was the new DelfLord of Kachar.

Thork watched the Vanadurin carry slain Elgo from the Hall, and the great oxlike warrior as well. When they were gone, Thork turned unto the body of his murdered sire, taking hold of the saber hilt and wrenching it from Brak’s chest, holding the dripping blade aloft and snapping the steel in twain, hurling the pieces from him. Casting his hood over his head, Thork bent and lifted up the corpse of his father, bearing him out from the Hall of State and leftward down a corridor, turning at last into the great rotunda, where the Châkka of Kachar honored their dead. With him went the Chief Captains, their heads also cowled, in mourning. And as Thork lay his sire upon the great marble dais, the mighty funeral bell began knelling its slow, deep lamentation: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!

Long moments passed, and there came a rustling from the doorway, and the ranks of the Chief Captains parted to permit ingress of a Châkian: ’twas Sien, Brak’s trothmate, the dam of Baran and Thork. As with all Châkia, she was clothed from head to toe in swirling veils, gossamer light, pale in color, her face unseen. Slender she was, perhaps four feet tall. With great dignity, she paced to the dais, her step light upon the polished granite, and lay a gentle hand upon the brow of her mate. And she began a high-pitched keening, and sank to her knees at the base of the marble platform. And all the Captains fled the chamber, for they could not bear such anguish. Thork, too, retreated from the rotunda, for his mother’s grief was too much to behold.

Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!

Desolate, the warrior blindly made his way back to the Hall of State. And Thork passed by a great stain of blood-Elgo’s blood-upon the white marble floor as he stepped to the mighty throne. And his eye fell upon the Dragonhide pouch lying at the foot of the carven chair, glittering iridescently in the phosphorescent light of the lambent Châkka lanterns. Enraged, Thork bent over, tears falling unto the stone, and snatched up the purse, hurling it from him. And the Dwarf fell into the seat of the throne, his mother’s cries echoing in his mind. And he wept and cursed the Men who had slain his sire, swearing vengeance. And all the while, the Dragonhide lay scintillating upon white marble.

After a long span of time, Thork arose from the great chair of state. And he stalked unto the glittering pouch and took it into his hands. Jeering Elgo said that this would be needed to collect a treasure; well, by damn, I will use it to do so! The Châk warrior’s mind raged as he fingered the hide, Thork seeing a way to turn the iridescent skin against these looters. Striding purposefully to his own quarters, he retrieved his shield and bore it unto his sire’s workroom. And there he took up his father’s tools and with whelming blows began fashioning a shield cover, a device made of Dragonhide, marking a shield that these Riders would come to fear upon sight, for it would be borne by Thork, son of Brak, whose vengeance would be mighty.

It was two days later, in the early afternoon, that Baran came unto the gates of Kachar. And in his wake trailed nine ponies, each bearing a dead Dwarven warrior, each one a treacherously slain emissary.

In the Hall of State, the new DelfLord summoned his Chief Captains unto him. And amid an uproar of rage, he told of the foul deed done by the Riders upon the Châkka column that bore a grey flag. And he bade the Captains to spread the word, and to prepare for a mighty War of retribution.

And then he went to the rotunda and viewed the remains of his sire, and spoke to his grieving dam, but what they said to one another is not recorded.

And Baran ordered that a worthy tomb be carven to hold Brak’s body, clothed in full armor and raiment of state. And he ordained that his father’s great black axe be placed within the grasp of his sire, and that the broken sword of his enemy, of Elgo, be placed at his feet, as was befitting a Châk warrior who had died in combat.

And he ordered that the slain emissaries be placed upon a huge pyre in the vale before the gate.

For in all of this, it was the way of the Châkka-stone or fire, nothing else would serve: Châkka must be laid to rest within pure stone or be placed upon a fitting pyre. For the Dwarves are certain that fire lifts up the spirits of valiant warriors slain, just as stone purifies them. And they are certain that for a Châk to be reborn, the spirit must be freed from the bonds of Mithgar. Hence the dead must not be interred in soil, for root-tangled sod entraps the shade in the darkness, and mayhap an age will pass ere the soul can escape the worm-laden soil. Stone or fire: nothing else will serve.

On the day of the burning, Brak was invested in the white tomb of holding, and would remain there until his own sepulcher was carved. The keening of the Châkia drove the warriors mad with grief, and they would have stormed from the Dwarvenholt and marched upon Jord right then and there had not Baran ordered them to stand down.

And when the days of mourning were done, the days of War were begun.