Dragondoom

CHAPTER 30

Early Summer, 3E1602

[This Year]

In the midst of the morn at the foot of the vale before the gates of Kachar, Aranor rode Flame through the dew-wet grass out upon the empty field and reined to a halt, his eyes sweeping the length of the coming battleground. And the thick stench of death oozed down the swale and pooled at its bottom. In the distance, up the valley to its head, great flocks of vultures and ravens and crows squabbled upon the carcasses of the slain horses, pecking at one another, rushing forward with necks and beaks and wings extended, battling o’er the choicest feeding, though there was more than enough for all. Now and again when fighting became too fierce, great squawking black clouds of the scavengers would rise up and then settle back to greedily resume the rending and tearing and tossing of torn flesh down bottomless gullets.

Lord Death’s familiars, thought Aranor, revulsed by the raucous gluttony, the stripping of the bones of steeds once noble.

Riding a black, Gannor joined Aranor, and the two eyed the distant grisly feast. “Damned gorcrows!” cursed Gannor.

“Aye,” said Aranor. “But think upon this, cousin of mine: Ever do the tides of combat shift from one side to another, yet ’tis the scavengers who reap the folly of battle. If there be victors in War, then yon be the eternal victors, for they risk nought, yet gain all to their liking.”

“What you say is true, Aranor,” replied Gannor, “still they be ever damned to hang back on the fringes, nervously eyeing the brave and the bold. Never will they step up and be counted. Never will they defend that which they deem to be Just.”

“Aye, Gannor, cowards are they all,” mused Aranor. “Yet by that same token they will never fall in a cause thrust upon them by a Liege Lord, Just or not.”

Another great squawking, squabbling cloud flew up and milled about in the slanting light of rising day ere settling back.

“Damn,” growled Gannor, shifting in his saddle, leather creaking, “these birds be not what it is that preys on my mind. Instead it be the Dwarves: mighty warriors. For every one we fell, nearly two of ours are slain.”

“Not only mighty, Gannor,” responded Aranor, “but clever and cunning as well. No matter our tactics, they have anticipated them, and set into motion counter moves that nullify our strengths and magnify our weaknesses.”

“ ’Tis this straight-walled vale,” spat Gannor, gesturing to both sides. “Were we out upon the plains, then would these Dwarves feel our strength. Then would the tide of battle shift to us.”

“Aye,” agreed Aranor. “This be a narrow lieu indeed. ’Tis hard to flank their formations, hard to round on them from the rear, hard to cleave through their center when their backs are ’gainst stone rises, and their sides be warded by the unyielding rock as well.”

“And their pole arms are grounded in the vale slope, and their crossbow quarrels fly through the air like sleet,” finished Gannor. “Too, they have some mighty champions.”

“That one with the shield of broken light,” muttered Aranor.

“And the flashing warhammer,” added Gannor. And then after a pause: “Their King be no slouch wi’ an axe, either.”

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” exclaimed Aranor. “How can such puissant warriors be consumed by greed?”

Ere Gannor could voice an opinion, Reachmarshals Vaeran and Richter rode forth from the silver trees and joined the King and his cousin. Battle lay before them, and they sat ahorse and sighted up the vale and reviewed the plans they had laid the night before.

And ravens and crows and vultures, feathers ruddy with gore, squabbled and squawked and rent flesh, their heads and beaks plunging deep within gaping carcasses, plucking forth dangling gobbets of torn meat, gulping down tidbits oozing with dark blood, their gimlet eyes ever on the alert for predators, ready to flee at the first sign of danger, especially danger in the form of those two-legged ravagers who for some unfathomable reason, a reason beyond understanding, had slaughtered and then left behind this plethora of ripe juicy flesh.

“Kruk!” cursed Baran, “if my reckoning be right, we slay nearly two of the thieves for each warrior of ours that falls.” The DelfLord tested the sharpened edge of his axe with his thumb and turned to his brother. Thork stood with a grit stone, roughing the leather-wrapped half of his warhammer. “On the face of it,” Baran continued, “that would seem to give us advantage, yet their numbers and ours are such that as we slaughter them and they slaughter us our ranks will dwindle down till there be just two of them left alive to fight a last battle with but one of us; and after that final conflict, War’s end will find no one left alive.”

“Damn Riders!” exclaimed Thork. “Yet heed me, Baran: these brigands can count as well as we, hence I deem that after but one more battle, they will withdraw from the field, running home with their tails between their legs.”

“Aye, brother of mine,” responded Baran, “I think you have the right of it, for the numbers of their dead are great indeed. Yet they come from a Race that breeds like lemmings, and in but a few short years their bratlings will swarm upon their hearths. We on the other hand are slow to bear young, and so our own losses cut to the quick. And even though two of them fall to each of our one, in the long run it is we who suffer the greater damage.

“There is this, as well: even should they run, still they will hold in their clutch that which is rightfully ours, locked away in the vaults below their keep.”

Thork pondered Baran’s last statement a moment. “Then, brother, I say that we gather our kindred-from the Quartzen Hills, from Mineholt North, from the Red Hills, from the Sky Mountains, and from mighty Kraggen-cor-and march upon these looters in numbers too great to deny, and take back that which they stole.”

“Aye, we will, should it come to that,” said Baran after a pause.

In that moment, the door to the work chamber opened and a Châk herald stepped to Baran’s side. “My Lord, the Riders gather at the foot of the vale.”

Baran raised an eye to Thork, and the Prince nodded, setting his glitterbright shield upon his left arm, taking warhammer in hand.

“Then let us fare forth unto the killing field and reap the bloody harvest,” said Baran grimly, fitting his metal helmet in place, steel wings flaring up and back, buckling the chin strap, catching up his axe by the helve.

Out from the chamber they strode, making their way to the great assembly hall behind the outer gates. And there massed were nearly twenty-one hundred Châkka. And when Baran trod into the wide chamber there came a great roar of voices, and the dinning clack of axe and hammer upon buckler. And DelfLord Baran stepped in among the ranks, and held up his hands for quiet. When silence fell at last, he spoke, raising his voice so that all could hear:

“A band of thieves and looters struts before our gates and seeks to burst in. Yet they shall not gain entrance, for we shall repel these robbers at our door. We shall stand upon our ground come what may. Know this: that we are in the right. Fight with honor the foe with no honor.” Baran swept an axe from the grip of a warrior at hand, and crossing it with his own he held the two weapons on high, and they were like unto the black and silver standard above. “Vengeance for Brak and Blackstone!” he cried.

Vengeance for Brak and Blackstone! rolled forth a mighty shout from the assembled warriors.

And at a signal from the DelfLord, behind them the great inner gates of Kachar ground shut, sealing off the passages to the interior, while before them the outer gates swung open, admitting the glancing golden light of the morning.

Out marched the Châkka, relentless and silent, the tread of their boots hard upon the stone of the foregate courtyard-axes, hammers, pole arms, crossbows, quarrels, shields, chain, helms-arms and armor glittering ruddily in the bright Sun.

And as they marched outward, great clouds of squawking scavengers rose up into the morn, fleeing in raucous panic before these grim destroyers.

And down at vale’s foot sat the might of the Harlingar, ahorse, line upon line of mounted warriors, spears bristling to the sky.

The Vanadurin Host watched as the Dwarven Army tramped out from the gate, scattering shrieking gorcrow and silent vulture unto the skies, the birds wheeling like swirling dark leaves before a twisting wind.

Out marched the Dwarves, across the head of the valley, coming to a halt in a long curved formation: concave, many Dwarves deep.

“I like this not,” growled Gannor. “The enemy stands along a great cupped bend, inviting us to ride within, to smash through their center, as is our wont. Yet heed: though they have tried to conceal it, most of their archers stand along the wings; the crossfire will be murderous. . doubly so from Dwarven crossbow.”

Aranor looked long. “Hai, you are right, Gannor. This be the first time we have seen the jaws of the trap ere they spring it.”

“My Lord,” queried Marshal Roth, “how know we that this be a true trap? Mayhap they have another trick in mind, and merely show us this formation to draw us into the genuine scheme of their cunning.”

“Aye,” agreed Reachmarshal Vaeran, “this could be but a stratagem to lure us into an altogether different snare, a snare that we will not fathom until it is too late.”

“Bah!” snorted Gannor in frustration. “Tricks, stratagems, snares. I say we take it on the face of what we can see, and not dwell upon the unknown and the unknowable. This be the formation that they have spread into. Let us deal with it and not with phantom arrangements, phantom moves as yet unseen.”

“King Aranor,” cautioned Reachmarshal Richter, “you said it yourself, that these Dwarves be cunning in the ways of War. On the first day of combat they drew us into a trap by showing us a seemingly open flank. Yet, that ‘undefended’ flank was nought but a ruse, and we paid dearly for attacking it without a stratagem of our own to deal with a snare. Let us not fall into that pit again.”

“Yet let us not plan and plan and plan, and be paralyzed into no move whatsoever,” admonished Marshal Boer.

Aranor sat in thought but a moment. “It is true that they could be showing us but a mask, a disguise to be rent aside when we have committed, a cloak covering their true formation, a formation that they will assume when it is too late for us to veer. Aye, this could be a cunning trap of their devising. Yet mayhap the snare is nought but the murderous crossfire of Dwarven crossbows. If that be the case, then we need a plan of attack that will nullify that advantage. And given that plan, we need to contrive a second plan which anticipates the Dwarves’ stratagem should it be a different face they show us once they see our own formation.”

“Rach!” spat Gannor. “Wheels turning within wheels.”

Long the Châkka stood, pole arms and crossbows at the ready, axes resting ’gainst the earth, hammers and shields likewise, and still the Vanadurin moved not. The Sun rode up into the sky, and a stirring among the Dwarven ranks showed their impatience to get on with the slaughter of the thieves. Are these looters shying away from battle? Baran asked himself. No sooner had he formed the question in his mind, when at last, forward came the Harlingar, their riding order curved as a great open horseshoe, a formation that would negate the crossbow crossfire. Baran smiled, for again the Riders had acted as he had judged, and he signalled the bugler, and the horn sounded, resonant and commanding. At the next signal, the Châkka would regroup into their true ranks, and take the looters by surprise.

Aranor heard the Dwarven signal, and nodded to Reynor, and that young Man grasped his black-oxen horn, awaiting the King’s signal, for Aranor and his counsellors had judged what trap the grasping Dwarves had likely laid. And upon command, the files of the Vanadurin would wheel together into a hard-driven wedge aimed at the heart of this treacherous foe.

Gauging the advance of the Harlingar, Baran turned to his herald: now was the time! The herald raised the horn to his lips, but the sound of the call was lost ’neath a mighty roar.

RRRRAAAWWWW!

And down from the sky hurtled a great ebon shape.

Black Kalgalath had come, and fire shot from his mouth, and all that it touched burst aflame.

Agonized shrieks filled the air as Dwarves ran amok, their hair and beards and clothing afire, while others fell to the ground clutching at their throats, gasping, unable to breathe, their lungs seared irreparably. Still others reeled back, clothing scorched, hair singed, yet they had been on the fringes of the flame, escaping the worst of it. And some yawled and ran, fleeing the jet of fire, while a very few loosed quarrels at the great black shape thundering past, wings whelming twisting vortexes of air to smash warriors to their knees, scattering them like leaves before the wind.

Down the vale rushed the Dragon, straight at the Harlingar, fire whooshing outward as it hurtled onward. And horses screamed in terror and ran wild, beyond control. And Black Kalgalath thundered down upon the scattering ranks of Vanadurin, burning all before him. And Men fell to the earth, horses too, charred past recognition.

Up into the sky wheeled the Fire-drake, wings booming, turning, rushing back. And fire blasted into the Harlingar again, and more fell flaming unto the ground as the Drake sped back toward the Dwarves now bolting in the direction of the gates of Kachar.

FHOOM! Flame washed over the fleeing Châkka, and shrills of the dying were lost beneath the hammer of leathern wings.

Up again flew the Dragon, up over the steep-walled mountain at vale’s head, and then turned and dove once more, hurling back down the length of the valley toward the routed Vanadurin. And the Drake’s brazen voice clanged rage, like two massive metal slabs smashing into one another, dragging across one another, rending into one another. And his fire washed down upon horses and Men, and raw screams and harrowed shrieks were rent from the yawling throats of burning victims.

Again and again Black Kalgalath hammered the length of the valley, burning, roaring, his wings thundering. And Men, Dwarves, and horses fell before his Dragonfire. Much of the Châkka Army managed to flee into Kachar, slamming the great gates shut behind. The surviving Vanadurin fled into the woods, scattering widely. And at last the mighty Fire-drake settled upon the crest of a mountain, bellowing his pleasure. Below him, the smoke rose up into the sky as the grass of the vale burned. Yet a more devastating fire was now catching hold, for the Silverwood also was ablaze, the flames sweeping southward.

The next day, Aranor called his Legion together, his great black-oxen horn rallying them unto him. And when they were assembled, he took tally, and hundreds had fallen unto the Drake, and others to the fire of the burning Silverwood ere it had run its course. Defeated, he gave the signal to start the long trek home. And through the charred stumps of burnt trees they wended, aiming for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond. They would leave this land of death, returning to hearth and home.

But that was not to be, for Black Kalgalath was not finished with his vengeance. These Men had presumed to slay a Dragon-Sleeth was dead-and they would pay dearly for that affront.

The Drake came down upon Aranor’s Host just as the Harlingar entered the pass. Again the roaring flames slew indiscriminately, and Man and steed fled before the mighty creature. Back out of the col they fled, scattering among the thick pines, evading at last the Dragon’s rage, though now this forest, too, was aflame.

Two more days Kalgalath harassed Aranor, and upon the eve of the second day, the Vanadurin King, with a Host of less than fifteen hundred Harlingar, found himself back in the vale of Kachar.

Night had fallen. Baran and Thork sat in the Council Chamber amid the gathering of Chief Captains. None knew what had brought Black Kalgalath down upon the vale, nor whether or not it would affect their quest to regain that which was rightfully theirs. Their scouts did report, however, that the Dragon still raged within the region, and that the Harlingar had not yet managed to return to Jord. But Dragon or not, still there was the issue of the War with the Riders, and they pondered the question of how to regain the stolen treasure of Blackstone.

And as they sat in council, the hard strides of a herald rang upon the stone floor of the chamber, the Dwarf purposefully making his way to Baran’s side. Softly he spoke unto the DelfLord. Baran stood and announced: “A crowned Rider and a standard-bearer stand before our gate. They bear the grey flag.”

Shouts of anger erupted from the assembly of Chief Captains, most cursing the unmitigated gall of these thieving raiders who would dare approach the Châkkaholt under the protection of the same grey flag that they had so crassly violated.

Baran held up his hands, but quiet was a long time coming. When at last silence fell: “I would speak with this King once more.”

Again shouts of rage broke out among the Captains, but Clang! Thork stood and slammed the flat of an axe against a pillar, and abrupt silence filled the hall.

Signalling the herald, Baran spoke a few words, and the Châk rushed from the chamber.

As Baran stood to go to the throne room, Thork stepped to his side and softly said, “Brother, take care. Once before we invited one of these vipers into our domain, and our sire is dead as a result.”

Baran merely grunted his acknowledgement.

Haggard, weary, smudged with ashes from burnt trees, Aranor and Ruric stood before the gate. Ruric cleared his throat. “My Lord, I know that we ha’e gone o’er this time and again, yet I stand wi’ the others. I would not enter into the Dwarvenholt, no matter the cause.”

Aranor turned to his Armsmaster. “Ruric, we have lost some thirty-six hundred Vanadurin: to Dwarves, to Drake, to fire. I would lose no more. This be our only choice.”

At that moment, the postern opened and down came the herald, “My DelfLord bids you to enter,” he growled, plainly not approving Baran’s decision.

Turning, he led the two Men up the steps and through the small side gate, and down to the main floor. Twisting through phosphorescently lit hallways, at last they came into the Throne Room, and there was much shifting and rumbling from the assembled Chief Captains at the sight of these intruders.

Aranor approached Baran sitting upon the throne. The Harlingar King inclined his head, acknowledging the DelfLord as his peer. Baran gestured for Aranor to be seated in the chair at the foot of the throne. Ruric stood behind, still bearing the grey flagged standard.

Aranor looked up at the Dwarven King. “My Lord, Black Kalgalath falls upon my Legion every day, slaying with his fire. We have tried returning to Jord, yet he controls the pass through the Grimwall, and nought may cross over without his leave.

“I know that you and I will ever be enemies, for there is that which lies between us that can never be settled except through the force of arms.

“Even so, I have a plan, yet my Men are like unto revolt against me for what I propose. But I deem that we have no choice; a Fire-drake be too much for any to stand against.” Aranor fell silent, pondering his next words.

“And what might be this plan of yours?” asked Baran. “What could cause a Legion to revolt against its own Leige Lord? Why are you here? What is it you ask?”

Aranor cleared his throat. “Sanctuary, Lord Baran. I ask for sanctuary within Kachar.”

The hall exploded in rage: Dwarves cursed and ranted. Some tore at their beards, so great their anger. One Chief Captain cocked his crossbow, ready to spit this thief of thieves, yet he had no quarrels and hurled the weapon to the floor in ire.

Again Thork whelmed the flat of his axe against a stone pillar, and after a while quiet returned.

“I see that your warriors like this plan no better than mine,” gritted Aranor, “no better than do I. Yet we have little choice.

“There be an eld saying:

All must aid

When Dragons raid.

“And the Drake is upon us now. It is a matter of honor that you give us succor, that you yield us sanctuary, for sanctuary has never been denied to one who flees the wrath of a Dragon.”

“Honor!” exploded Baran. “Which among you can speak of honor when your own Men defiled the very flag you now bear?”

“I can, Lord Baran”-Ruric’s voice was quiet, but all in the hall heard him-“I can speak of honor. If I could not, then ye would not now be King o’ Kachar, but instead would lie beside those comrades who accompanied ye on yer mission to Jord.”

For the first time Baran looked at the flag bearer standing in the shadows of Aranor’s chair. “Step forward, Rider, that I may see your face more clearly.”

Ruric stepped to the foot of the dais, and Baran looked long into the features of the Armsmaster, remembering the warrior in Kaagor Pass who had stopped the slaughter of the emissaries, too late for all but Baran.

At last the DelfLord spoke to the assembled Captains: “It seems that I may have spoken in haste, for this one indeed holds honor high. Yet none holds honor higher than the Châkka.” Baran looked square into Ruric’s eyes. “You ask this boon, Man of Jord?”

“I do, Lord Baran,” responded Ruric. “I ask it in the name o’ my Lord and Master, Aranor of Jord.”

“Nay, Man of Jord,” admonished Baran, “I did not ask that you speak in the name of your King, for he is here to speak for himself. Instead I would know whether you ask it in your own name.”

Long Ruric stood in thought, not glancing at Aranor. At last: “Aye,” sighed Ruric, “I ask it in my own name as well.”

Now it was Baran who pondered long, finally growling, “I mislike this plan, for we are engaged in War; yet by the same token, honor demands that all must aid when Dragons raid.”

The DelfLord stood, and so too did Aranor. “Leave me, King of Jord. I will give my answer at the daūning.”

What debate raged among the Châkka is not told, for it is said that the quarrels were long and bitter. Yet in the end, it was Honor that decided the issue. And when the first light of dawn came upon rose-colored feet, the great iron gates of the Châkkaholt swung wide, and inside was massed the forces of Kachar, ready to crush any treachery upon the part of the thieving Riders. Yet all that stood before the gate were King Aranor and Armsmaster Ruric, mounted upon Flame and Flint. Baran stepped forth and spoke to Aranor, his words simple: “Bring in your Men, for we will give you sanctuary.”

A bitter look washed across Aranor’s face, for he did not relish what he was about to do. Yet he raised his black-oxen horn to his lips, and a flat demanding call split the air: Taa roo, taa roo, hahn! [Come in peace!]

Out from the charred forest at the foot of the vale and up through the blackened valley rode weary Men, pressed to their limits. And tiny puffs of darkness whiffed up from plodding hooves as foot met ebon ashes of burned grass. Fourteen hundred or so survivors were all that made their way toward the haven offered unto them. Gaunt were their faces, for they had slept little, had fled much, and had not eaten in three days. Too, the forest water was fouled with the char of burnt trees, and so they thirsted for a clean drink. And lurking behind bloodshot eyes was fear, for a Dragon raged after them, and they could not seem to escape.

Up unto the head of the vale they rode, up unto the courtyard. Dismounting, they led their horses toward the open gates, toward safety. And with ill grace and deep rancor the Dwarves resentfully stepped aside to let these thieves enter their strongholt. Setting an example, Aranor was the first to cross the threshold, leading Flame, and right behind came Ruric and Reynor, leading their mounts as well. Then came the bulk of Aranor’s Legion, and they eyed the Dwarves with hatred and suspicion. And as the first stepped in among the scowling foe:

RRRRAAAWWWW! Black Kalgalath thundered into the vale, shouting his rage, flame spewing, wings hammering. Down toward the Châkkaholt he arrowed, down toward the now-fleeing Men and Dwarves, and his breath raked across the Men, burning them, and their dying shrieks echoed among the crags of the Grimwall. Wheeling, turning, back came the hideous Drake, his ebon scales aglitter in the rudden rays of the rising Sun.

FHOOM! Flame spewed upon the screaming Men, a jet of fire whooshing into the opened gates, and Châkka died in its blast.

Frantically, the Dwarven Host turned the great mechanism that closed the portal, and slowly the gates ground to. Men ran pell-mell into the shutting entrance, and horses scattered in unbridled panic, some darting inward, others scudding down the valley.

And Kalgalath whelmed down upon the earth in vale center, and his mighty legs drove like hammers as he rushed up the valley toward the closing doors, fast as a horse and faster he drove, and Men and Dwarves shrieked to see him coming, a giant black juggernaut hurling toward the Dwarvenholt, flame spewing before him.

Toward the gate he came, faster and faster, and Men fought to get inside. Nearer and nearer he came, roaring, flaming, spewing death and destruction.

And at the very moment he hurtled across the courtyard and reached the great iron portal, Boom! shut the gate. Clang! fell the bar.

DOOM! Kalgalath’s massive bulk slammed into the closed portal, but it did not yield.

And Men were trapped outside. And those within could hear the dying shrieks of their comrades.

Kalgalath’s rage was boundless, and after a time of killing, when all without were slain, up to the high slopes above the gates of the Dwarvenholt he flew; and he rent down a great portion of the mountainside to smash into the forecourt below: huge slabs and boulders crashed down, and an enormous ramp of stone piled upward against the portal as the massive rocks thundered atop one another, smashing, splitting, shattering, heaping, until a great slope completely buried the gates and more, standing at twice their height. And when the swirling rock dust settled, the entrance to Kachar lay beneath unnumbered tons of stone. And Kalgalath was well pleased as he stood before the wrack and surveyed his handiwork.

“Now let us see how well these bitter enemies can sleep together in this bed of thorns they have so foolishly made,” hissed the Dragon.

Slithering away from the Châkkaholt, he took to wing, his great dark leathery pinions hammering across the red light of the morning sky, for he had a treasure to wallow in, and his fiery caldera awaited him.

And as Black Kalgalath winged eastward, he paid no heed to the yellow-haired youth at the edge of the burnt forest who sat astride a fleet horse with a remount trailing behind, a youth who stared in wide-eyed horror at what he had just witnessed. And when the Drake had gone, the young Harlingar sat a moment more, his face pale, drained of blood, his message from Elyn to Aranor made moot by Kalgalath. And then he rode up into the vale, up unto the slaughter grounds, and wept to see such murder. At last he turned away from the door buried ’neath a mountainside of rubble, away from the char and blood and victims torn asunder, away from this valley of death, and spurred his steed back through the black ash of Silverwood destroyed, and hied for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond.