Dragondoom

CHAPTER 33

Early and Mid Summer, 3E1602

[This Year]

Boom! shut the gate.

Clang! fell the bar.

The metallic clash of iron on iron belled above the frightened cries of Men and Dwarves and the squeals of horses.

“By damn,” roared Aranor, his voice lost among the shouts of others, “open up those gates. I have Men trapped out there-”

DOOM! The great iron portal juddered from some massive strike, as if Black Kalgalath himself had crashed into them. And rock dust drifted down from the stone above.

And in the sudden silence that followed within, the wrathful roaring of an enraged Dragon and the terrified shrieks of dying Harlingar could be heard from without, the terrible sounds of death and slaughter muted by the iron.

“Open the gates!” cried Reynor. “They die!”

The Dwarves stood fast.

“By Hèl, I said open the gates!” Reynor drew his saber and started forward, but Ruric grabbed his wrist and held him back.

“’Tis too late, lad,” gritted the Armsmaster, tears in his eyes. “Too late.”

In horrified silence they stood rooted, while outside, the slaughter went on and on. And Men and Dwarves alike clapped hands over ears, trying to shut out the hideous sounds.

And then the dying stopped.

But a moment later a massive thundering whelmed endlessly upon the gate, and it juddered and jolted and sounded with a great clangorous hammering. Men and Dwarves reeled back and horses reared, and the very stone they stood upon trembled and rattled. And it sounded as if the mountain itself were being torn asunder.

Suddenly, the whelming stopped, and except for the clatter of skitting hooves of frightened steeds upon the stone of the chamber floor, and the hoarse breathing of Châkka and Vanadurin within, once again silence reigned.

Despite the massive battering, the gates of Kachar still stood.

When he deemed that Black Kalgalath was finished, Baran found his voice. “Open the inner portals,” he commanded, calling out his words above the susurration and clack. “Captain Bolk, escort these Riders unto their place of staying.”

And with a distant clatter of gears, the great gates at the interior end of the vast assembly hall began to swing wide, revealing a broad shadow-wrapped corridor stretching beyond. When the inner gates stood full open, down into the strongholt of their enemy went the Harlingar, down into a maze of stone-hewn tunnels, down into the bowels of the mountain, down into Kachar, led there by fierce Châkka warriors, the implacable foe. And as the remnants of the Vanadurin Host wended deeper and deeper into the burden of the stone, woeful legends of the underworld skittered through their minds, and chary eyes searched the gloom for unknown, lurking threats, and they wondered if any of them would ever again see the grassy plains of Jord.

“Kruk! but I mislike these Riders being within,” railed Thork, pacing the length of the chamber and back again. “It is as if we have taken a viper unto our bosoms.”

The gathered Chief Captains rumbled their agreement.

“Aye,” growled red-haired Bolk, addressing Baran. “Prince Thork has the right of it, DelfLord. Already these snivellers seek to heap guilt upon us all for the deeds of the Dragon. The next one of them who says we slammed the gate in fear, I will see that he never speaks such lies again.” The Châk warrior thumbed the edge of his axe, resentment smoldering deep within his dark eyes.

Baran sat at his place at the great round table, staring at its polished stone surface. When Bolk fell silent, the DelfLord looked up. “I like it no more than any that these looting Riders reside within, yet Honor demands it, thieves or no. A Dragon raids, and we have all seen and heard what a Drake’s wrath will do. Just why Black Kalgalath has taken it upon himself to bring death and destruction to our very door, I cannot say, yet he has done so.”

Baran turned to Dokan, Minemaster. “We must see what it is that the Dragon has done to our gates. They will not open, and I suspect that he has blocked them from without by pulling down stone from the Mountain above. On the morrow, Minemaster, I would have you take a work force out through the secret portal at vale’s head and begin the task of removing the stone, if indeed that is the case.”

“Aye, Lord,” replied Dokan, an elder Châk, his white beard and hair shining blue-green in the phosphorescent glow of the flameless Dwarven lanterns. “I will take a hundred or so: hammerers, drillers, haulers. If more are needed, I will see that they are fetched.”

Baran turned to Bolk. “Captain Bolk, that someone must stand guard over the Men cannot be denied. It has fallen to your Company to do so. You and your warriors are like to hear many lies within their quarters, many insults, Chief Captain, yet I ask you to forbear, to hold your temper. We know the truth of it: It was I who ordered the gates closed. It would not do to have a Drake within Kachar. If I had not done so, then there is a chance that Kachar would have fallen to a Drake just as Blackstone did sixteen hundred years apast. It was fear of this as well as dread of the Dragon that caused me to shut the entrance to Kachar, and so the Riders have something in their favor when they say that I closed the gates out of fear.”

“But that is not cowardice as the Riders claim,” protested Bolk. “Only a fool would stand before a charging Drake.”

“As they say Prince Elgo did,” muttered Thork.

“Elgo! Pah!” The name came off Bolk’s tongue like an oathword, a sentiment echoed by the other Chief Captains, words of frustration and rage rumbling about the chamber: Loose-tongued Riders. Just one word from any. .

At dawn of the next day, Dokan led a company of delvers out through the secret portal at vale’s head. Across the valley along the foot of the butte toward the foregate courtyard they marched, but even ere drawing nigh they could see that an entire army of delvers would be needed to remove the unnumbered tons of stone blocking the gate. Massive was the rock heap, great blocks torn from the shattered Mountain above, ramping up against the towering flank, burying the portal. Yet onward they marched, for Dokan would see for himself just what need be done ere sending word back into Kachar for more aid, more tools, more supplies.

Among Dragon-slain Harlingar they tramped, the Men burnt and rent and crushed. And the scavengers had been at them: empty eye sockets stared from gape-hole faces at the marching Châkka, partially stripped bones gleamed whitely in the dawnlight, and slack-jawed gaping grins japed obscenely from silent mouths ajar.

Past this slaughter marched the Dwarves, and though the sight sickened many, still this was the foe. Even so, there was no honor in the manner of their death; it was not as if these Men had met an enemy in honest battle; instead, they had been cruelly slain by a monster, and in this, the Châkka felt that the warrior codex had not been served. Enemy or not, a warrior deserves to fight the good fight, and if slain, then so be it. Or so say the Châkka.

Dokan led the delvers to the base of the great heap. It was even more massive than he had expected. Slowly the Châkka walked about the foot of the ramp, each assessing the enormous labor that it would take to clear away the blockage. At last the Minemaster called a runner unto him, and in short, terse sentences said what message he would have borne back to DelfLord Baran. And when the runner sped away, Dokan began giving orders to the remaining crew.

Sandy-haired Dorni, apprentice delver, sped toward the secret Châkka door, the Minemaster’s message committed to memory. Past the slain Harlingar he ran, and across the open slope, running alongside the stone bluff to his left. At last the young Dwarf arrived at the great boulder and slipped into the shallow crevice behind. Quickly his hands found the hidden lever. And just as the stone slab swung inward-

— RRRRAAAWWWW! A deafening roar shook the vale and massive leathery wings whelmed blasts of wind downward, and flame spewed upon the delvers at the face of the stone heap as Black Kalgalath thundered down through the dawn and fell upon the Châkka.

And young Dorni, his eardrums ruptured, his nostrils bleeding, turned and fled through the secret door and into Kachar, the Minemaster’s message to DelfLord Baran utterly forgotten.

Baran sat brooding upon his throne, Thork at his side. Before the dais stood Bolk, his eyes smoldering. “These sneering Riders are at it again, DelfLord: name-calling, accusing.”

Thork clenched a fist, hammering it into open palm. “Kruk!” The oath rang upon the stone of the chamber. “Did I not say that we had clutched a serpent to our bosom?”

“Think you that I know not the viperous nature of these braggarts?” gritted Baran. “Did I not lead the negotiating team into their deceitful midst? Am I not the lone survivor of their treachery?

“Even so, much as you or I or Captain Bolk or any mislike it, they are here under our protection: they asked for sanctuary, and by Elwydd, I gave it!”

“Sanctuary or no,” responded Bolk, “I cannot pledge that my warriors will not take matters into their own hands, for even sanctuary itself cannot revoke an insult to Châkka honor. Under our protection, aye, that they are, but that does not set them free from an honorable code of conduct.”

“Bolk-” seethed Baran, crashing the butt of a fist against the arm of the chair.

Baran’s words remained unvoiced, for in that moment there came a commotion from the outer hall, and shouting sounded, muffled by the chamber door: “Black Kalgalath, my Lord!” The door slammed open, and a sandy-haired Dwarf burst in. “DelfLord Baran, Black Kalgalath is come upon us, and he slays Châkka without!”

A healer was called as Dorni told his tale, the young Châk snuffling blood, his voice overloud, eardrums bursted by the Drake’s awful roar. Scouts were dispatched, Thork among them, to look upon the vale, to confirm the Dragon’s whereabouts, to see whether any Châkka had survived. They returned grim-faced, reporting that Black Kalgalath strutted in the valley, or winged upward to sit upon nearby peaks, roaring thunderous challenges; and of Dokan’s party, none lived.

And even as this shattering account came unto the DelfLord, another messenger stepped into the throne room, bearing word that a bloody four-handed duel had been fought between Riders and Châkka warriors, and that two Men and a Châk were now dead, and a second Châk lay severely wounded and was not expected to live.

Scowling, Aranor and Gannor stalked into the throne room, taking up seats placed there for them. Ruric had been summoned as well, and he took up a stance behind the Vanadurin King, his own face impassive. Baran sat upon the throne, the DelfLord’s visage grim, while Thork stood at Baran’s side. Except for these five, the chamber was empty.

Baran was first to speak: “King Aranor, I have granted you and your Men sanctuary, yet you repay me by murdering Châkka warriors-”

“Murder?” burst out Gannor, his face dark with anger. “That’s a Dwarven lie!”

Thork’s hand jumped to his axe, and he stepped forward, flushing scarlet with wrath.

Gannor leapt to his feet, drawing his saber, and this in turn brought Aranor and Baran to their feet, each reaching for their weapons.

Instantly, Ruric stepped between, thrusting out his empty hands as if to press ’gainst both onslaughts. “By Adon,” he cried, “would ye start a bloodbath?”

Shaking with rage, Baran managed to step hindward, reaching out and drawing Thork with him.

Reluctantly, Aranor sat down, and at last, Gannor, too, flung himself into his own seat.

But Ruric remained standing between. “My Lords, I would speak.” At an angry nod from Aranor, Ruric continued: “Though I do ha’e an opinion, I be not here to lay blame, and so my thoughts on this matter will remain unvoiced. Yet heed! This duel ha’ its roots in both sides, and was driven by pride and by insulted honor. By our own law, King Aranor, an affair of honor cannot be meddled wi-”

“Not true, Armsmaster,” interrupted the Vanadurin King. “A stay of combat can be ordered until the facts are known by a court of peers.”

“Aye, Lord,” responded Ruric, “that be true. Yet should the facts bear out that honor be breached, then satisfaction be due.”

In a seeming shift of focus, Ruric turned to DelfLord Baran. “I would ask our host what be the way o’ the Dwarves in matters of honor.”

Gannor snorted and muttered under his breath, “Dwarven honor, pah!”

Again Thork’s face flushed in anger, and the knuckles of the hand griping his axe grew white. Yet he held himself in check and spat out an answer: “When it comes to honor, none stand higher than the Châkka.”

“What be your point, Man Ruric?” asked Baran.

“Just this, DelfLord,” responded the Armsmaster. “Sanctuary or no, for the most part our laws prevent us from interfering wi’ the honor of individuals. All that any may plea for be the rule o’ reason, which at times calls for judicious self-control on the part o’ the injured party. And if yer laws be the same, should it come down to an affair o’ honor, if the insult be too great for the individual to bear, then duels will be fought, and there will be bloodshed ’twixt our two Folk.”

Baran sat brooding for a moment. “Then, Man Ruric, duels will be fought, for our laws in this matter are much the same as yours, and Châkka honor, too, must be preserved.”

Aranor cleared his throat. “I suggest, DelfLord, that we Vanadurin go forth from this stone hole as soon as may be, as soon as Black Kalgalath no longer raids in this vicinity, for as long as the Drake harasses this region, we will be your unwilling guests.”

After the Men had departed, Thork turned to Baran. “Brother, I note that you did not tell the Riders that Black Kalgalath raided this very dawn, this time slaying Châkka.”

“Nay, Thork, I did not,” answered the DelfLord. “I know not whether such news can be used by the looting thieves to our disadvantage. Until I know that, I will not speak of it to them.”

The next day, as reported by Dwarven scouts standing within the secret portal, again Black Kalgalath rampaged within the vale, shouting great brazen roars from atop nearby peaks, rending soil from the floor of the valley, tossing aside mutilated corpses, sending the flocks of scavenger birds fleeing in panic. At last, the Drake took to wing, yet Baran ordered that no one venture outside to retrieve the slain Châkka, for none knew whether Black Kalgalath had truly departed.

And again the blood of outraged honor was spilled within the Dwarvenholt, as duels were fought between Dwarves and Men. This time eight died: five Vanadurin and three Châkka.

On the following day a Council of Chief Captains was called to consider these twin dilemmas: a Dragon without, and Men within.

When all had gathered, Baran stood. “We are met here to consider our course of action. Black Kalgalath has chosen to fall upon this Châkkaholt-why? I cannot say. Our main gate lies buried under countless tons of stone. Yet, while the Drake raids, we cannot uncover it.

“Too, because of the Dragon, I have granted sanctuary to the Riders-”

“And they repay our generosity by slaying our kindred!” shouted Bolk, slamming his fist to the table, his face red with fury. An angry rumble of agreement rose up from the assembled Captains. “By Adon, I said that no good would come of letting a pack of thieves-”

“Silence!” roared Baran, his own face dark with rage. “What is done, is done. I want no rehash of arguments made days agone.”

Quiet fell within the chamber, though it was plain to see that Bolk was about to choke upon ire, and sullen anger smoldered within the eyes of other Châkka as well.

“Let not these. . Men. . lead us into pointless quarrels,” growled Baran, “for we are not here to squabble among ourselves. Instead we gather to resolve problems, not to create new ones, nor to revive old ones.” Baran’s eye swept across the assembly, and many Captains looked down in shame rather than to meet the gaze of their DelfLord.

“As I was saying,” continued Baran, his voice level, “we are met to consider what to do about the buried gate, about Black Kalgalath, and about the Men. I seek your advice.”

After a short silence, a grey-haired Châk stood and was recognized. It was Fendor Stonelegs, Masterdelver. “My Lord, I would consider what to do about the Men. It is plain to see that Honor demands that they remain in our sanctuary for as long as the Drake raids. Only a great wrongdoing upon their part would lead to us casting them out in the face of Black Kalgalath, and these duels are private affairs, and not to be meddled with.

“Even so, should we wish to eject the Riders, we could lead them to the hidden north gate and out”-an uneasy stir ran ’round the table-“but that would reveal a secret long held, one better kept unto ourselves. Yet heed, the same is true of the east, west, and south gates. . true of any gate but the main one.

“This then is my proposal: that we drive side passages at the main gate, postern passages, as it were. This will take some time to accomplish, and mayhap Black Kalgalath will lose interest and abandon these raids ere we are finished. But raids or not, postern passages will allow us to begin the task of digging out the main gate, for the side tunnels will allow us access whereby we may clear the rubble, yet will provide nearby escape routes should the Drake return.

“When we begin the work outside, we must be ever vigilant, posting lookouts every moment to watch for Kalgalath.

“Even before then, we need a watch posted, to note when the Drake tires of this sport of his. For when it is determined that the Drake is gone for good, we can expel these Riders from our holt, through the main gate if it is cleared by then, through the side passages if not, and they will discover nought of our secret portals.”

Fendor sat down among an approving murmur, for many found his plan sound. Of the assembled Captains, only Bolk questioned the scheme, turning to Baran: “In the meantime, while we delve stone, these thieves will continue to provoke quarrels. How do you propose to handle that, my Lord?”

Baran ground his teeth in frustration. “Bolk-”

“My Lord”-a dark-haired Châk in his early years interrupted-“all know that we will throw the Riders out when the Dragon no longer raids. All know that we will resume the War when the Men are ejected. All know that we will recover our stolen treasure from these looters. And all know that we will not rest until vengeance is gained for our slain. It is in this time of revenge that we will settle all ills between us and these Men.”

As the speaker, Dalek Ironhand, resumed his seat, Bolk again spoke up, his voice verging upon a sneer: “Hah! Mayhap we should let each Captain call together the Châkka within his command, and say unto them that these days are coming. Mayhap they will lay their quarrels aside, staying their hand until the time of revenge. To this, I say nay! For vengeance delayed is vengeance denied.”

At Bolk’s words, Captains shifted uneasily within their chairs, for indeed most did believe that vengeance delayed was vengeance denied, and none would stay the hand of one whose honor had been impugned.

Dalek began to rise, his face darkening, but Thork’s words intervened: “Did we not agree days ago to temporarily set aside our grievances when sanctuary was asked and given? Aye, that we did, for the honor of the Nation comes first.”

“Aye,” responded Bolk, “we did accept the Men under those terms-terms not to my liking, I might add. Yet the Riders do not honor that agreement, for they heap insults upon our heads, calling us cowards and murderers and gold-grabbing Dwarves. I say that we take the Host down into the holt and exterminate these vipers once and for all!”

Bolk’s words brought on an uproar of shouts and curses, Captains vying to have a say. Once again, Baran shouted for silence, resorting at last to slamming the flat of his axe Blang! to the stone of the table. And when quiet fell at last, Baran glared at all the gathered Châkka, blood in his eye, no one saying aught. Finally, Baran spoke, his voice low, gritty: “We are not rabble, here. Let not these Riders make us so.”

A ginger-haired Châk, Galt, Masterdriller, stood and was recognized. “Captain Bolk, that your brother’s son was slain by these Riders, we all know; yet all of us have lost kith in this struggle. And, aye, we all know that personal honor and family honor must be preserved. Yet, as Prince Thork has pointed out, we also know that the honor of the Nation stands above all. And it be likely that continued individual strife with Men in the halls of Kachar will lead to full-fledged warfare in these very same halls, in which case, Châkia and young will be at risk. Honor demands that we not put the future of our Realm in jeopardy needlessly. Insults these Riders may heap upon us, yet heed! Captain Ironhand’s words ring true. In the long run, we will prevail.

“Captain Bolk, mayhap you did not hear the DelfLord’s words; he said that we are here to resolve problems, not to create them. Captain Ironhand has pointed out facts, and we can indeed bring them to the attention of our warriors, noting the risk, noting that these Riders will continue to cast insults, yet noting that the honor of the Nation stands above all. In the end, unless decreed otherwise by the DelfLord, it is each Châk who must choose whether to stay his hand. If not, then so be it; if so, then so be that as well.”

Dalek again spoke: “It is as Galt says: DelfLord Baran must decide this issue. None else can.”

Again silence reigned, and all eyes turned unto Baran, the quiet at last to be broken by his words: “The honor of the Nation comes before all. Each Captain shall gather his warriors and tell them what has passed here in this Council. Remind them that the Realm comes first. Note that full combat within these halls would put the Châkia and the young in jeopardy. Tell them to put a rein upon their tempers, to ignore the gibes of the Riders, for vengeance will surely be ours in the long run. Yet, in extreme cases, let their hearts as well as their heads give guidance, for we must draw the line somewhere.”

Baran fell silent, and saw that many of the Captains reflected deeply upon his words, nodding in agreement, while others, notably Bolk, sat with stubborn resolve upon their faces, anger glaring from their eyes at the thought of these robbers jeering at them.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, Thork turned to Baran. “My Lord, I deem that the Dragon be at the root of our plight. Without the Drake we would be rid of the Men, we would be rid of duels, we could resume our War, defeat these thieves, recover our stolen treasure, and claim bloodgield for those Châkka wrongfully slain in this strife caused by the foe’s plundering ways. Hence, I would ask that we now consider what may be done to rid ourselves of Black Kalgalath.”

A notable air of relief stirred through the Council; here was a problem straight and true, one where the finer edges and points of honor were not at issue, one where the goal seemed plain, though the manner of achieving it was not. Baran turned to his Captains. “I deem that Prince Thork has the right of it: that indeed Black Kalgalath be at the root of our plight. What know we of Dragons in general, and of this Drake in particular?”

Silence stretched long and thin within the chamber, and at last snapped as silver-haired Kalor Silverhand, Chief Loremaster, slowly climbed to his feet and cleared his throat. “My Lord, there be all manner of legends concerning Drakes: that their sight be true in dark as well as light, and through illusion as well as reality; that their eyes steal will; that they speak all tongues; that they mate with Madûks in the great Maelstrom; that they are shape changers; spell casters; and other such notions.

“And there are things that seem to be more than mere legend and rumor, though proof is yet lacking; most notably, that Drakes can sense all within their domain. Mayhap this be true. Mayhap it was this power of theirs that led to the downfall of those Châkka who attempted to regain Blackstone from Sleeth a millennium agone, though how Foul Elgo and his looters defied this very same power, I cannot say.

“Those be the legends and rumors, but what be the facts? Well, this we can say with certainty: that Drakes are nigh indestructible and have strength beyond bearing; the length of their lives has not been measured by mortals; they sleep a thousand years, and raid two thousand more ere sleeping again; they spew fire, or if not fire then a dire spume that eats rock and flesh alike; they crave treasure; they dwell in remote fastnesses.

“The Fire-drake Black Kalgalath is said to dwell in Dragonslair, the dead firemountain to the east along the Grimwall. He is said to be the greatest Drake living. And lastly, lore has it that only the Kammerling can destroy the greatest Dragon of all.”

“Master Kalor,” asked Thork, “about this Kammerling: why is it also called the Rage Hammer?”

Kalor stroked his silver beard. “That be another legend, Prince Thork: it is said that only a rage beyond bearing will bring the Kammerling to its full potency. . that is why it is named the Rage Hammer.

“There is this, too, about Adon’s Hammer: lore would have it that there be a ‘doom’ on the wielder of the hammer, a prophecy: No matter whether for good or for ill, tragedy will surely come to him who wields the Kammerling.

“And it is also told that the Rage Hammer will be wielded by one who has lost a loved one.”

“That could be any one of us here,” mused Thork, “yet I deem that the death of my sire seems to fit this prophecy. Master Kalor, could it be Brak’s death spoken of in the words of lore?”

“Aye, that would fit,” answered the eld Châk, “though others would fit as well.”

“Be there aught else of these legends?” asked Baran.

“Only this, DelfLord,” responded Kalor. “It be told that Black Kalgalath cannot be slain by the hand of Man.”

Thork held up his own gnarled fingers, looking at them in the blue-green lantern light. “This be not the hand of a Man.”

Bolk’s deep voice sounded across the table. “I say that we get this Rage Hammer and use it not only upon Black Kalgalath, but also to whelm these Riders.”

Bolk’s proposition met with scattered shouts of agreement.

“Mayhap, Bolk,” responded Baran, “for it would be a mighty token of power to bear into any battle. But ere we can swing it in battle against the Riders, first we must obtain the thing. Master Kalor, where be this Hammer of Adon?”

“That I know not, DelfLord,” responded Kalor, “for there be many rumors as to its whereabouts. Yet among the Loremasters it be said that the Kammerling lies in the Land of Xian, where the Wizards dwell. I would look for it in Black Mountain, for that be the holt of the Mages. Yet, where be Black Mountain, I cannot say, other than far to the east in distant Xian.”

His knowledge spent, Loremaster Kalor resumed his seat. Long moments passed ere anyone said aught, but at last Baran spoke: “Let us now consider how we might obtain this weapon, for as has been pointed out, not only will it rid us of Black Kalgalath, it also can be used in the War with the Riders.”

“My Lord Baran”-Thork’s voice was quiet, yet all heard him-“I think that just one Châk must go on this perilous mission, and these be my reasons: First, we are not certain that the Kammerling even exists, and so to send a large or even a small band on this quest will deplete our much-needed forces here. Second, Black Kalgalath may indeed have the power to sense those nigh in his presence, hence may be able to detect a party of Châkka and destroy them; yet a lone Châk might be able to slip through, if for no other reason than Kalgalath may not deign to stoop to slay a single Châk. Third, whoever we send must be a warrior who wields a hammer with skill, for we know not what Adon’s Hammer be like, and the warrior’s skill might be needed to heft, to bear, and, aye, even to use the Kammerling. Fourth, this warrior must be able to fend for himself in the wilds as well as within civilization.

“Baran DelfLord, I propose that I be that warrior who goes on the Quest of Black Mountain.”

Amid a murmur of approval, Thork sat down.

Long into the night went the debate upon the best way to obtain the Kammerling, but in the end it was Thork’s plan that was accepted, for all knew that the Prince was a champion without peer, and none were mightier with a hammer than he. Too, he had all the skills needed to survive such a quest, and even DelfLord Baran, who was loath for Thork to go, admitted that he was best suited for this mission.

And so it was that Thork, Son of Brak, Prince of Kachar, was chosen to set forth alone upon a quest to find Black Mountain to obtain the Kammerling.

Yet, while this Council of Chief Captains was taking place, down within the bowels of Kachar another council was held: the two surviving Reachmarshals of Jord, Gannor and Vaeran, and Marshal Boer, along with Armsmaster Ruric and Captain Reynor, convened with the King to speak upon the straits they had come to; and their words were spoken in Valur, the ancient War-tongue of the Harlingar, so that if any words were overheard by hostile ears, they would not be understood.

“Aye, my Lord, that’s the gist of it,” reported Vaeran. “The horse skitted, the Dwarf cried out, there came a cat-call from a Harlingar, it led to words about cowardice and thievery, and next there was the duel.”

“And five Vanadurin lay dead when it was done.” Aranor’s voice was filled with suppressed ire.

“It be these whey-faced, gold-grubbing cowards who are at fault, Lord,” spat Reynor. “They slammed the gate upon our warriors and because of that-”

“By damn, Captain,” erupted Aranor, “the moment Kalgalath struck the ground it was too late for them! Even I realize that now. Had the roles been reversed, we would have done the same.”

Seething, Reynor clamped his lips together, yet it was plain to all that the Captain did not yet accept the reality of Aranor’s words.

“My Lord,” spoke up Marshal Boer, “duels with these Dwarves be not at issue here. The fact is that our latest tally shows that less than eleven hundred Harlingar remain, and only nine hundred horses are stabled within, and we are trapped in a black hole with our enemies teeming all about us.” Boer’s eyes took on a steely glint in the blue-green lantern light. “That be our true concern, King Aranor: not duels with these gold-grasping rock dwellers, but the fact that we are trapped and surrounded and outnumbered.”

“Aye, Marshall Boer,” replied Aranor. “Yet think you not that these gluttons cannot count as well as we. They would welcome a fight, for now they have the upper hand: they outnumber us; we are upon their home ground and know not the byways through this labyrinth of theirs, nor the path to freedom; we know not where the food is stored, nor grain for the steeds, nor where a supply of drinkable water lies. And do not forget-even should we win to freedom, there be a Dragon awaiting us out there.”

“Think you that they would use these duels to begin combat within their own holt, Lord?” Boer’s question fell into the still air.

“Aye, Boer, they might,” replied Aranor.

“Then, my King,” asked Gannor, “what would you have us do? They call us thieves and looters. They say that we are without honor. Would you have us accept these gibes? Would you have us take on the mantle of that which they name us? Would you have us be without honor?”

Aranor’s face flushed scarlet. “By damn, Gannor-”

“My Lord,” interrupted Armsmaster Ruric, “the quarrel be not here among us. Instead, it lies ’tween Vanadurin and Dwarves.”

Slowly Aranor’s face lost its anger. “You are right, Armsmaster. You are right. It be this unacceptable plight we are in that sets us all on edge. Let us not quarrel ’mongst ourselves. Instead, I would have us entertain strategies that will negate the advantage that the Dwarves have upon us.

“And, Hrosmarshal Gannor, Captain Reynor, let us also reason how we might negate the strategy of the foe, assuming that he wishes to catch us in a War within this maze of his where he has the whip hand. Clearly, forbearance is called for. We must cool down the hot blood of our warriors. Even so, I would not have us take on the mantle cast by the foe. Hence, at the same time, we must decide how to deal with that issue, with insults and gibes, with taunts and challenges, for we must draw the line somewhere.”

And so the Vanadurin huddled ’round the table and spoke long into the night, seeking strategems that would nullify the foe’s clear edge.

Thork set forth the following morn, after Black Kalgalath’s dawntime beleaguerment. With pony and supplies and travelling weaponry, Thork fared down the long rock-walled tunnel to the distant eastern exit, secret to all but the Châkka of Kachar. Baran went to the hidden portal with his brother, but what they said to one another is not recorded. All that is known is that Thork stepped out into the eastern light and mounted up onto his steed and set forth, riding downslope through the ashes of the Silverwood. And when he came to the bottom of the slope and reined Digger to a halt and looked back, Baran was gone into the Mountain once more. And so Thork clicked his tongue and urged the pony forward, travelling toward the morning Sun, riding in the wake of a distant east-bound Dragon.

And when Kalgalath winged west the morning after, the Prince was by then some thirty miles gone.

Five more days did Thork see Kalgalath winging to harass Kachar, flying toward the Châkkaholt in the dawn, and returning eastward in early morn. But on the sixth day and thereafter, he saw the Drake no more.

Day after day, easterly he fared, quartering with farmers and hunters, staying in occasional villages, living off the land when necessary: foraging, hunting with crossbow, trapping with snare, fishing. And always, whenever chance afforded, Thork would replenish his supplies from the folk he met and ask the way to Xian, receiving little more than vague gestures eastward.

Leagues passed beneath Digger’s hooves: grassy plains for the most part, with an occasional thicket moving slowly up over the eastern horizon to eventually disappear in the west; too, at times there were uplands, hills, woodlands, rivers, and streams standing across the way.

Slowly summer marched across the land and Thork and Digger did likewise, and the days grew long while the nights became short. Yet always the goal of Black Mountain seemed no nearer than it was the day previous. Yet the Prince and the pony fared on.

And at last there came a night when Thork camped upon the edge of the Khalian Mire, the easternmost place noted upon the maps within Kachar, maps studied by Thork ere he set forth. About the Mire, nothing was noted, except a cryptic reference to hidden danger or bogs, it was uncertain which. Thork had noted that the Mire lay along the planned route, and it was shorter across than it was around. And as he set up camp that evening, caring for Digger, seeing to his own needs, Thork speculated upon the fact that after the morrow, after he had passed beyond the swamp, he would be moving through territory unmapped by the folk of Kachar, out into the unknown, out where there be nought but white space upon the charts.

And as he settled down for the evening, in the distance to the south, perhaps a league or so away, Thork could see the flicker of a distant campfire, and he wondered what could bring another traveller unto fringes of this great bogland.

The next morning Thork rode Digger in among the dark, twisted trees thrusting up through an oozing mist seeping over the slime-laden muck squishing underfoot. Grey clinging moss hung downward from dead limbs, thick tendrils brushing across Thork’s face, clutching at his eyes and mouth and nose as if to smother him. Green-scummed water swirled with unseen shapes, and snakes with dead black eyes and flicking tongues slithered along rotted logs and among clotted reeds clumped in stagnant pools. Things plopped unseen into the water, and great clouds of gnats and mosquitoes and biting flies swarmed over Châk and pony alike, and swearing and slapping, Thork dismounted and smeared jinsoil over his hands and face, and upon Digger as well.

Through a tortuous entanglement of moss and trees, reeds and water, mire and land, rode Thork; it was as if he were caught in a labyrinth: forward he would move, only to have to backtrack, seeming always to ride into impassable dead ends and traps. And the very land sucked at Digger’s hooves, clutching, grasping, reluctantly yielding as the pony withdrew each foot-ssluk! — from the grasp of the morass, the mud slurking as if in protest. Through leech-laden scummy water they passed, emerging with Digger’s legs coated with the hideous parasites, creatures driven by gluttonous lust, mouthing blindly, sucking, swelling with blood. And Thork would dismount and scrape the slimy bloated bodies from Digger’s shanks, treating the oozing wounds left behind.

The Sun rode up and over, the sweltering swamp belching and heaving with gases of rot. Air became thick and hard to breathe, and a stillness descended as if nothing were alive but Thork and Digger and the cloud of buzzing insects swarming about them.

Slowly the Sun sank, and dusk drew nigh, and with it came a return of sound from the dwellers of the mire: peeping and breeking and brawking as well as slitherings and ploppings and splashings of unseen creatures, of hidden movement.

Thork did not know how far he was from the edge of the Khalian Mire, but he did know that he could not spend the night within its clutches. And now the Sun fell unto the horizon, and began to sink below. Long shadows seeped among the trees and moss. Reeds fell into shadow.

And without warning, Digger screamed and bolted, and Thork could not stay the pony’s panic, for it was as if the little steed had sensed some evil lurking, waiting for the dark to fall.

Blindly, Digger crashed through the reeds, running in stark fear, Thork haling back upon the reins to no avail, for the horseling had seized the bit and was not to be headed. But in that moment, Digger hurled through a reed wall, and suddenly Châk and pony were floundering in a slough, Thork losing his seat and pitching headlong into the mire.

Weltering, Thork got his head above the quaking bog, and managed to struggle upright. Digger flopped and wallowed an arm’s length away, the quavering muck sucking at them both, threatening to draw them under. And a gagging stench, like rotten eggs, rose up about them.

Again Digger screamed in panic, the pony’s eyes rolling white with terror, the steed plunging and floundering, sinking deeper.

“Kruk! Dök, praug, dök! [Excrement! Stop, pony, stop!]” raged Thork, now up to his chest in the mire, while the panic-stricken steed flopped and struggled, grunting and squealing.

Thork strove to reach Digger’s side, to calm the animal, but just as suddenly the pony stopped its frantic thrashing.

And Thork looked up through the gathering dusk, and in the shadows his eyes locked with those of a tall, green-eyed, copper-haired Woman mounted upon a grey steed. And from all appearances, she was one of the thieving Riders.

The turning wheels of Fate had spun full round, and neither the warrior on the shore nor the one in the bog could know what the future held. The only thing of import at that very moment was that each one saw in the other the face of a hated foe.