Dragondoom

CHAPTER 45

Summer and Fall, 3E1603

[The Present]

The evening that Thork returned to Kachar was one of great joy and of great grief and perhaps of great rancor: joy, for the heir to the throne had returned; grief, for Thork learned of the death of his beloved brother, Baran, slain by a spear meant for another; rancor, for it seemed that Bolk but reluctantly stepped aside, grudgingly giving over the power he wielded unto the DelfLord born.

And he found a Châkkaholt upon a War footing, readying for an assault upon Jordkeep.

Yet he conducted no business of state that night, instead calling for an assembly of the Chief Captains and Counsellors to take place in the Council Hall at mid of day on the morrow.

And Thork sought out his mother, Sien, the Châkian waiting in her chambers. Gracefully she stood and took his hands in hers, and from within her veils looked past his flame-scarred face and deep into his eyes, and saw within a terrible grieving, and a heart torn by anguish nearly beyond bearing. She knew that Thork mourned for Baran, for that was reflected in the sadness she saw. But the pain he held deep within went far beyond the sorrow of brother grieving for brother. Nay, this was something more. Yet she said nought, knowing that he would tell of it in his own time, when he could bear to speak of it.

Long they talked into the night: of the War, of the casualties, of Baran and Brak, of things past and present, of events yet to be. But of his journeys, Thork said nought, and Sien then knew that therein lay his broken heart.

Thork sat in the DelfLord’s chair, while all about him the hall filled with Châkka, Captains taking their seats, Counsellors likewise, many hurrying through the chamber doors to be within ere the Council started. The great room buzzed with conversation, Captains and Counsellors speculating upon what DelfLord Thork would say, what DelfLord Thork would do, speculating, too, upon when they would set out northward to take the War to the Men, a War that would have already begun but for the raid of Black Kalgalath on Springday morn when he buried the gate once again. At last the signal came that the Sun stood at the zenith, and Thork signified that the doors were to be closed, latecomers just squeezing past as the portals swung to.

All eyes turned expectantly unto the DelfLord, and Thork stood. He was dressed in burnished black-iron chain mail, and a rune-marked axe was at his right hand. His damaged beard and hair had been washed and combed and trimmed as best could be, his flame-scarred face turning slowly left to right as he surveyed all those within. Conversation fell to a murmur, to a cough or two here and there, to silence. And when the entire chamber was quiet, the DelfLord spoke, his voice soft, but all could hear him: “This War with Jord is done. We will fight no more.”

The hall exploded: Châkka leapt to their feet and shouted in rage, oaths filling the air; others fell back into their seats in shock and dismay; still others waited quietly, for they would hear out the new DelfLord. Many turned to Bolk at the opposite end of the table, for he was chief until Thork’s return. And it was Bolk who held the floor when the uproar subsided.

“By Hèl, you cannot do this, Lord Thork, for we are upon the verge of total victory over these Riders! We are set to march unto Jordkeep and throw it down and take back the treasure that is rightfully ours.”

Shouts of agreement rose up, and Bolk nodded savagely to those about who supported him.

Thork waited until this demonstration had nearly run its course, then held up his hands for quiet. It was a long time coming, yet at last silence reigned.

“There is no treasure at Jordkeep. Black Kalgalath tore down the castle and rent open the vault and took the trove unto himself. And when Kalgalath was destroyed in turn, the treasure was destroyed, too, lost in the ruin of Dragonslair. But heed me! Even were there yet a trove, still would this War be over!”

Again the hall erupted in sound, shouts of dismay and disbelief ringing throughout: Kalgalath dead and Dragonslair ruined?. . treasure destroyed? Jordkeep. .?

This time when the DelfLord held up his hands, silence came more quickly; yet it was Bolk whose words intruded, his voice ringing: “You say these things, Lord Thork, yet how know you that Black Kalgalath is dead? How know you that the trove be destroyed, that Jordkeep is torn asunder?”

A rumble went through the assembled Châkka, for now Bolk trod on dangerous stone, questioning the DelfLord as he did.

Thork gritted his teeth, yet held his temper, as all eyes swung his way. “I know these things, Captain Bolk, for my companion and I slew Black Kalgalath with the Kammerling.”

Slew the Drake? Shouts of astonishment burst forth, yet quickly subsided as Thork held up a hand for silence.

But again it was Bolk who held the floor: “You have not answered all my questions, Lord Thork. Yet I will add to them: Who was this companion you declare helped you slay a Dragon? And, too, if it be as you say, then where be this fabled Kammerling you claim to have wielded? Where be the proof of what you say?”

Now did all the Châkka assembled glance back and forth between these two, for it seemed certain that Bolk and Thork would come to combat.

And Thork’s hand reached down and gripped the haft of his axe, hefting the weapon onto the table and laying it before him, his knuckles white. Even so, he managed to release the helve, and then he spoke: “You go too far, Captain Bolk, with the tone and tenor of your questions; yet this once will I answer all you have asked:

“My companion was Princess Elyn, Warrior Maiden of Jord, daughter to King Aranor.”

Sharply indrawn breaths greeted this news, but chopped to silence as Thork went on.

“That Jordkeep is torn asunder, I know by her word.

“That the Drake took the trove to Dragonslair, I know because I saw it therein.

“That the Dragon was slain by the Kammerling, I know because I did it.

“That the trove is destroyed, I know for it was in a firemountain blasted apart: Dragonslair.

“That Dragonslair exploded, you should know, for it did so in the afternoon of the first day of spring, and I am told that the cataclysm of its ruin was felt and heard here in Kachar as well as far beyond.

“That the Kammerling is not with me is because it is buried deep within the unbearable heat of the melt below what is left of Dragonslair; this I know for Orth the Utrun verified it.

“I bear my proof upon my face, Captain Bolk, in the form of scars. Yet would you have further proof, then go unto the shattered firemountain, if you can reach it, for its wreck now lies in the center of a Hèl upon Mithgar, the land and all life destroyed for twenty leagues in all directions, in some directions more, the ruins now belching fire and fumes and vomiting up lava.

“That I survived was the doing of the Stone Giants; but my companion, Princess Elyn of Jord, was slain.”

Beloved.

Amid an uproar of sound, Thork sat down, letting the clamor run its course, composing himself.

And when the noise subsided, again it was Bolk who spoke up: “All you say may be true, Lord Thork, but still I say we march upon Jord. For I tell you that we are upon the verge of total victory. And they have much to answer for. I will not be denied my vengeance!”

Thork’s face darkened with fury, his scars flaring scarlet. He leapt to his feet and Blang! slammed the flat of his axe to the stone table.

“By Hèl, Bolk, I say this War is done!”

They stood glaring at one another, each quivering with wrath. Yet it was Bolk who was first to yield: choking back his rage, he spun on his heel and stalked from the chamber.

And in the strongholt of Kachar, many were the bitter arguments among the Châkka in the night, as claims clashed with counterclaims, and strategies and tactics were argued, and vengeance was weighed against losses, and against bloodgield and treasure, or its lack.

Some Châkka called for a march unto Jordkeep to set siege to the ruins of the castle and crush the Men; yet others pointed out that if they did so they would be battling upon the Riders’ own territory, not in a narrow lieu as before the gates of Kachar where the Châkka held the advantage, but instead out upon the open plains where the Men upon their swift horses would hold the upper hand.

And in dark chambers deep within Kachar, a few even thought to act against Thork, to rise up in rebellion, to cast him out, to banish him; yet they did not, for he was DelfLord, and to do so would be to take a stride upon the path of dishonor.

And overshadowing all was what DelfLord Thork had revealed concerning his mission, the tale that he had told: of Princess Elyn, of the Kammerling, of Black Kalgalath and of Dragonslair and of the trove. And of the legendary Utruni. None disbelieved that these things were true, for all had felt the juddering of the earth in the late afternoon on the first day of spring. And they all had seen Thork’s scars, obviously made by flame. Further, they did not believe that the DelfLord would lie about such a thing; it would be too easy to disprove were it not the truth; besides, Lord Thork had never been known to say false, and so they accepted the truth of it. But they knew only that which he had said within the Council Chamber, and nought else; and speculation ran wild concerning the whole of it, concerning the full story, yet no more did he reveal.

And at last they came to accept Lord Thork’s decree- even Bolk seemed to accept it, though it was plain to see that rage lurked just below the surface-and thus it was that the War footing came unto an end. Even so, long lasted the ire of the Châkka toward the Riders, and the name Elgo was forever spat like a curse.

Within the week of his return, DelfLord Thork sent an expedition off to set claim upon Blackstone and all therein, following a plan made a year agone to recover that lost Châkkaholt, a plan laid down just before Foul Elgo had come unto Kachar.

Too, he sent emissaries under a grey flag unto the battle-weary Vanadurin, bearing an unexpected peace offering, setting aside the War, cancelling all debt between them.

And he sent a private message to be given over to King Aranor, a message concerning his daughter Elyn. Never had Thork composed a missive so difficult to bear the writing of, though it contained but few words.

The stunned Harlingar accepted Thork’s unconditional terms, though they did not understand why the Dwarven King demanded nothing when he was on the verge of victory.

And for weeks, Aranor kept the private message next to his heart, and would read it now and then, grieving as he did so. But in the end he placed the note in a small golden box, and took it unto the barrows, and buried it ’neath green turves next to Elgo’s mound.

It was in late summer that Thork rode to meet Aranor upon the Jordian plains. Thork had again sent a messenger under grey flag unto Jordkeep, and now Thork and his entourage rode down through the blowing mist and out of Kaagor Pass, heading toward the steppes beyond the foothills, for Aranor had agreed to meet the DelfLord there at the edge of the mountains. The sky was dark with roiling clouds, the weather dank and chill, for autumn was at hand, and soon the snows would come unto the Grimwall, and then would winter fall upon the mountains above, and later to the lands below. Yet for now, green clad the slopes, though leaves would soon begin to change. And fog and cloud swirled among the peaks as down came the DelfLord and his band ’neath the lowering skies, all the Châkka upon their ponies, for in those days no Dwarf would ever ride a horse.

Beneath grey flags, the King of Jord and the DelfLord of Kachar met at the edge of the prairie, Aranor now looking older than his years, Thork’s features desolate. The two of them dismounted and walked out into the grass together, the tall Man and the compact Dwarf, leaving behind their escorts, Châkka and Vanadurin hostilely eyeing one another, looking for signs of treachery.

Rider King and Dwarven DelfLord strode some distance away, then stopped and spoke to one another. All of what they said was not scribed in detail, though some of the record remains; yet it is certain that they spoke of Elyn, though haltingly and briefly, neither able to bear saying more. They spoke, too, of the destroyed trove, and of pride and greed setting them both upon the road to Death.

Often the conversation would pause for long moments, neither saying aught, memories stirring.

Aranor looked back at the stiff postures of his Men on horses, and the like attitude of the Dwarves. “Mayhap someday our two Folk will be allies once again; yet now is not that time.”

“Aye,” agreed Thork. “Long years will pass ere the Châkka will relent, for we have a saying among my Folk: ‘He who seeks the wrath of the Châkka finds it! Forever!’ ”

Yet other words haunted Thork as well:. . no hatred, no vengeance, no neglect is passed on forever; it must come to rest somewhere, to vanish in the eternity of time or to die under the weight of love.

“But in the end, King Aranor, I deem you will be right: someday our two Folk will be allies once again.”

Once more a long silence stretched between the two as the chill wind blew across the grass, Aranor squatting down and plucking a green blade, briefly studying it, then looking out across the plains.

“I have sent Châkka unto Blackstone,” said Thork at last, “for we intend to reclaim our ancient home. Be there any of the trove overlooked, I will equal share it with you, for I have a promise to keep.”

“I do not want it, Lord Thork,” replied Aranor, standing, glancing back to his escort where sat Ruric at its head, the Armsmaster grizzled as an eld Wolf. “Ruric had the right of it from the first: Dracongield be cursed. And I have paid, you and I have both paid, too dearly for that hoard already: you, your sire and brother; I, both of my get; each of us, many good warriors who didn’t deserve to die. And all because of Dracongield-Nay! Not the gold of Dragons, but instead what that gold does to the hearts and minds of those who would possess it, of those whom it possesses in turn. So if there be any of the trove remaining, then I say, cast it into the deeps where lies the rest.”

They sat in dark thought for long moments. And now it was Aranor who broke the silence between them: “They say that only eternal night rains down upon the dead.”

Tears in his eyes, the King of Jord looked long at the King of Kachar, as if waiting for confirmation. . or an answer. Finally Thork responded: “Not as long as there is someone left alive who still remembers. Not as long as there’s someone left alive who yet cares.”

Who yet loves. .

As if by mutual consent, they turned and slowly walked back unto the waiting entourages and bestrode their steeds. Without a word, each reined his mount about, and they rode away from one another, escorts following beneath grey flags, returning home.

And a chill rain began to weep from the leaden skies above.

It was in the early fall when a mud-splattered Châk came riding a pony unto Kachar through an afternoon drizzle. He spoke a word or two unto the gate warders, and was immediately escorted to Thork’s work chamber. The DelfLord sat gazing at a small crucible, remembering Brak, remembering his sire. Thork set the vessel aside and signed the young warrior, Otar by name, to speak.

“My Lord, I am come from Blackstone and I bear astonishing news: A great treasure we found in the very first chamber, the gate chamber: a Dragonhide! A full Dragonhide! Or nearly so. It lay upon the floor: empty, but for ashes within; complete, but for a swatch missing from its face. Never have I seen such wealth, nor had any of us; we were stunned, for it just lay there unattended, in the open for any to take, glittering in the sunlight when it shone through the portal, and in the moonlight at night. But none had taken it, this trove, and so it is rightfully ours.”

“Sleeth,” grunted Thork.

“Aye,” agreed Otar, “that is our thought, too. We believe the missing piece from his face adorns your shield. We also deem that Adon’s Ban reached through the hole left behind and turned the Drake’s innards to ashes.

“Ah, but the great glittering hide is untouched by the Ban. The things we will craft from it will be priceless. There is nothing else like it upon the face of Mithgar.”

“Except upon a live Drake,” responded Thork, and he fell into long thought. After a while: “What of the rest of Blackstone? How fares it?”

“Lord Thork, it be rich with ores. Gemstone lodes as well. It rightfully deserves to be called the Jewel of the Châkkaholts, for with labor we can wrest great wealth from Blackstone, from the earth below the Mountains that Elwydd gave unto us.”

“Good, Otar. Now would I have you come unto the baths, and make yourself presentable for my Counsellors, for I would have you tell them the tale you have told me, and more. And while you prepare, I will sit with you, and we will take a meal, for I would have a full report ere you speak to them. . Too, I have something to tell them as well.”

Again there was uproar within the Council Chamber, for DelfLord Thork had just announced that he intended to give half the Dragonhide unto the Jordians, or if not the hide itself, then half its worth. Debate raged back and forth: concerning who owned the hide; concerning the Jordians’ rights in this matter, since they themselves had abandoned the hide, since they themselves had told Baran that the Châkka were welcome to Blackstone and all that was therein-even though the Dwarves contended that Blackstone was always theirs, and so for the Jordians to grant such was moot; and finally, concerning the rights of a DelfLord to be so free with Châkka wealth. . should the hide prove to be fully theirs.

Yet in the end, after listening to interminable talk, Thork stood and declared: “Assault me no more with your arguments, for I would have no such clatterous cacophony assailing mine ears. Half goes unto the Harlingar, can we find a way to give it to them. So I have said; so shall it be.” And at these words all the Counsellors assented, for Thork had invoked the DelfLord’s decree.

As Thork walked back to his chamber, once again his mind stood before a dark cave leading into the Dragonslair holt of Black Kalgalath.

Thork, should you fall in battle and should I survive, I here and now renew my pledge to you: I will do all within my power to stop this mistaken War between our two Folk, I will share and share alike all Dracongield between Jord and Kachar, and make whatever amends are appropriate, cancelling all debt. .

My Lady, this pledge between us need not be renewed here and now, for it exists within each of us forever. . whether or no it is said aloud again. Yet would it please you to hear the words, then I do so swear once more.

I do so swear once more.

I do so swear once more. .

Thork went to seek out his mother, Sien, ready at last to speak to her of Elyn.