Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And as the Warrior Maiden rode Wind toward the bird on its kill, her eyes spotted in the distance to the east a train of ponies wending westerly, some with riders, others laden with provisions. Swiftly gathering up Redwing, hooding the bird and transferring it to the hawking perch attached to the fore cantle of the saddle, snapping a short leash from the stand to the jesse on its right leg, Elyn scooped up the slain rabbit and lashed it to the leather thong holding the other three, then mounted Wind and spurred the mare toward the castle.

  “By Adon, brother of mine, I think you are right: they are Dwarves! Ten of them!” Elyn stood with Elgo atop the eastern rampart and watched the pony train draw nigh.

  “Hai!” crowed Elgo, “this good eye of mine be sharp after all. Would that father were here to see this as well.”

  Once again Aranor was out of the Kingdom, this time on a mission to Naud to settle the border dispute with Halgar, eldest of Bogar, King now that his sire had been slain in battle with the Kathian Realm. And now was the time to press the Naudron, for they would rather not be trapped ’tween enemies on separate flanks, though it was not likely that Jord would ever join Kath in any venture, for the bad blood between them ran deep and red.

  Ruric came to stand at Elgo’s side. “Dwarves, my proud Prince?” grunted the Armsmaster. “Aye, but why do ye suppose they would come knocking at our door? And look, they bear a grey negotiator’s flag at that.”

  “Were I a Dwarf, then would I come to thank those who had liberated Blackstone, Old Wolf,” answered Elgo, a gleam of anticipation upon his countenance. “And if they would negotiate, then it be for the reward due us.”

  “Hai roi! Let us hie to the throne room, my brother,” urged Elyn, her own spirits soaring, for she had never before seen a Dwarf, “and greet them in state.”

  Swiftly and laughing and calling for a page, brother and sister scurried down the ladderway—Like children at play, thought Ruric, coming at a more sedate pace.

  A herald stepped forward into the great hall, crying, “M’Lords and Ladies, Baran, son of Brak, DelfLord of Kachar, approaches with his retinue.”

  Scowling, Baran and nine other Dwarves were escorted into the throne room, rays of sunshine pouring down brightly through the high windows. Therein assembled were Elgo, upon the royal seat, with Arianne at his side, and Elyn and Ruric and Reynor—now Captain of the Guard—in attendance. There too was Mala, who would miss no affair of state held in open court, especially an affair this curious, as well as Darcy and Elise and Kyla, attendants to the fair Arianne. Ranged along the perimeter of the throne room were twenty warriors of the Castleward, ready to deal with trouble should it arise, for these Dwarves, though allies in the past, bore arms and armor into the Keep of Jord.

  So these are Dwarves, short but broad; strong, I wager. Elyn tried to look at ease, yet she noted that the Dwarven warriors had naturally and casually fallen into a group stance that would quickly shift into one of defense. By their scowls, not very friendly, though steadfast, I hear. I wonder how well they swing those axes slung across their backs.

  As hastily rehearsed, Reynor stepped forward. “My Lord Baran, may I present the most puissant Elgo, Prince of Jord, Slayer of Sleeth, Liberator of Blackstone. I present as well Arianne, his Princess.”

  A look of irritation passed over Baran’s visage, as if he would dismiss these tedious formalities. Yet warily, stiffly, the Dwarf bowed, his eyes never leaving Elgo’s scarred face.

  The Prince stood, his hand on the pommel of his saber. “Welcome to Jord, my Lord Baran. Would that my sire were here to greet you, for he has long wished to meet a representative of your Realm. Our two Kingdoms would profit by an association, as you no doubt would agree; and if that is the matter you have come to discuss, we will host you till my sire’s return, for he would wish to deal personally with such an important concern. If you instead have come on another matter altogether, then I would hear what brings you unto Jord.”

  The Dwarf stepped forward, the look in his eye grim. “We have come for that which is ours, Prince Elgo,” growled Baran, “the hoard of Sleeth the Orm.”

  “What?” exploded Elgo, his good eye flashing a steely blue, his scars flaming red with anger. “You cannot be serious. The trove is ours, won by blood and death.”

  “That the hoard cost you lives, I do not doubt, and so you and yours deserve a finder’s fee,” responded Baran, “yet I am most deadly serious when I say that we have come for that which is ours.” Baran gestured to his comrades. “But ere we speak further, we would see this hoard, for it is but an unconfirmed rumor that has brought us to your domain; for all we know, it be but a spurious tale.”

  “Spurious? Pah! See it you shall,” gritted Elgo, ire burning in his face, “but not a single coin will you take back with you.” Elgo stalked down from the throne dais, leading the Dwarven delegation toward the treasury, Elyn, Ruric, and Reynor at his side, Reynor signalling the Castleward guardians to follow, Arianne, Mala, and the Ladies-in-waiting left behind.

  Winding through the castle, down to the lower levels they fared, Prince and Princess, Dwarves and escort, coming at last to a well-guarded portal. At Elgo’s command, the barred portcullis was raised. They entered a wide room, and other guards stepped forward to meet them, one in particular, a giant of a Man bearing a great ring of keys. Again Elgo spoke, and the warden led them a way farther, taking up a lantern to light their steps. Finally, at the end of a short corridor, an iron door stood locked. Rattling through his keys, the Man slipped one into the well-oiled lock, turning it with a clack.

  Silently, the portal swung open, and into a large room stepped the Dwarven emissaries with their Vanadurin escort. A set of floor-to-ceiling iron bars stood across the room midway, in the center of which was another locked portal. Beyond the bars gleamed the trove of Sleeth the Orm, jewels, gold, silveron, all casting glints of lantern light back unto the eyes of the beholders. The warden lit lamps hanging from wall brackets, and all of the glittering hoard could now be seen.

  Forward crowded the Dwarves, fetching up against the barrier, staring through the bars at the great trove before them, their eyes wide, unbelieving, taking in the bulk, the mass, of the treasure. Long they looked, as if searching for something missing. Finally Baran growled, “Is this the whole of it?”

  “Nay,” answered Elgo. “Much lies at the bottom of the Boreal Sea.”

  “What I meant, Prince Elgo,” gritted Baran, “was: is this all that survived?”

  “And what I meant, Lord Baran,” rejoined Elgo, fire rising in his voice, “is that if you would have any of Sleeth’s hoard, then by Hèl, I suggest that you mine the Maelstrom for it.”

  “Pah!” spat Baran, his Dwarven temper rising. But ere he could say on—

  “I would remind both o’ ye,” Ruric lashed out, “that a grey flag be borne in this matter. Let us step away from this cursed trove and speak wi’ reason upon it.”

  Glowering at one another, Elgo and Baran reluctantly gave sharp nods of their heads, and the assemblage made their way back unto the great hall.

  They sat at a great long table: Châkka arrayed along one side, Baran in the center; Vanadurin along the other side, Elgo midmost. Eye to eye they faced one another: Dwarves glaring at Harlingar, Harlingar glaring at Dwarves. At each end, grey flags sat upon standards.

  Weapons were forbidden in this room, all being stacked upon tables in an antechamber.

  As protocol demanded, the Dwarves were first to speak, Baran holding forth: “That Sleeth came and took Blackstone, there can be no doubt. That we owned Blackstone and the trove within, there can be no question either. Thus there can be no quarrel that the treasure is ours. Yet, we are Just in our dealings with others, hence we offer you a finder’s fee, a quarter of the trove, a fair price for your labors.”

  “Pah!” snorted Elgo, but held his tongue, waiting for Baran to finish this ridiculous charade.

  But Baran said no more, his case stated clear enough for anyone to comprehend, even an overbear
ing fool.

  Seeing that the Dwarf was finished with his claiming and offering, Elgo responded: “We agree that Blackstone was yours, that the trove was yours, that Sleeth came and took it. But heed! You did not diligently try to regain that which was yours. Yet wait! Ere you claim that is not so, list to me: If the bards be right, then twice you strove to reclaim your former property; indeed, we saw evidence of one of your failed attempts—a great ballista with poisoned shafts, partly assembled, it seems, when Sleeth struck your people down. But long ago you abandoned your assays, hence, yielding over all claim to Blackstone and the treasure within to any who could succeed where you had failed.

  “Well, I did not fail. And the treasure is mine. And so, if you would have a like treasure, then I say return to Blackstone and delve for it! I give you back the holt, for Men live not like moles underground!”

  “You know not of which you speak,” shouted a red-bearded Dwarf to Baran’s right, “for thrice we—”

  “Maht! [Silence!]” roared Baran in the hidden tongue, glaring at the one who had burst forth. “Nid pol kanar vo a Châkka! Agan na stur ka Dechâkka! [None shall know of that but the Châkka! Reflect no dishonor upon our ancestors!]”

  Seething, the red-bearded Dwarf held his tongue and said no more, but his eyes burned at Elgo.

  Mastering his own ire, Baran turned once more to Elgo. “I would ask you this, O Man: If a large burly thief knocked down an innocent citizen and stole a purse from him, and if you witnessed this and immediately slew the thief and recovered the purse, and if there was a gold piece inside the purse, then who would the gold belong to?”

  “The citizen,” answered Elgo. “But—”

  “Bear with me,” interrupted Baran. “Now what if you had not actually witnessed the crime, and instead the thief had managed to run around the corner ere you saw him, but you had heard the cry ‘Stop thief!’ and knew that this was the criminal, and then you slew him. Whose gold would it now be?”

  “Still the innocent citizen’s,” answered Elgo, seeing where Baran’s argument was leading, but waiting his turn.

  “And what if the thief managed to flee cross-country ere you slew him,” continued Baran, “yet from a reward poster you recognized him months later, then whose gold would it be?”

  “Perhaps mine,” answered Elgo, smiling a toothy smile, “for who is to say that it was the very same gold. Most likely a thief would have spent the citizen’s gold by then, and this would be someone else’s, mayhap even the thief’s if he but labored for it.”

  “That is not the case, Prince!” snapped Baran. “The whole world knows that Sleeth stole from us. The whole world knows that the treasure he took is the very same treasure you found. And he who refuses to return property stolen by a thief becomes a thief in turn!”

  Elgo continued to grin, yet it was the smile of a predator. “Let me use your own words, O Dwarf: Suppose the thief moved onto the citizen’s land, into the citizen’s house. Suppose the citizen asked no one for help and gave up trying to retake his land and his house and his gold piece. Suppose the citizen died. Suppose his heirs abandoned his land and all the goods thereupon and made no attempt to regain it. Suppose more than a thousand years pass and no heir ever lays claim to the ancestral place, no heir attempts to evict the thief, no heir posts a reward, no heir ever cries ‘Stop thief!’ Suppose that later you come across this abandoned land, and slay the evil occupant, and searching, find the abandoned gold piece.

  “Now I ask you, Lord Baran, whose gold is it? Whose land is it? I caution you to answer carefully, for if you say that it belongs to the heirs, then all the Lands we now occupy, these Steppes, your undermountain Realms, all these Lands once belonged to someone else, someone who abandoned their claims ages apast and drifted on. Yet you would have their heirs own it.

  “But I tell you here and now that if they be abandoned, then those that find them and claim them and defend them and hold them are the true owners.”

  Anger flared up in Baran’s eyes. “By Adon, we did not abandon that land! Nor the treasure upon it!”

  “Then you lost it in War,” said Elyn, speaking for the first time. “Heed me! Only the diligent can show that they did not abandon their claim, yet we all know that you have not been diligent. But diligent or no, Lands lost in War go to the victor. And just as you lost Blackstone to Sleeth, oh so long ago, so did Sleeth lose it to Elgo but months past. From vanquished to victor go the spoils, and that includes the long-lost treasure, for in this War, Elgo was victorious.”

  “But the spoils of War are to be returned to those wrongfully deprived of their property,” shot back Baran. “Else there be no justice, no honor.”

  “Then, my dear Dwarf,” answered Elyn, “I suggest that you return that which you took from the Rutcha during your Wars with them.”

  At these words, many of the Dwarves’ faces flushed with anger, and some growled and futilely reached for their axes, forgetting that they resided upon a table in the antechamber. “War with the Ukhs will never be ended!” spat Baran.

  ‘When the shoe is on the other foot,” Elyn rejoined, “oft’ it hurts painfully.”

  “This be not the same”—Baran’s voice was low and dangerous—“for our claim be Just. In honest War between honorable foes, spoils go to the winner, and the loser has no cause for claim.”

  Elyn immediately responded: “Then be grateful, Lord Baran, that my brother has seen fit to return Blackstone unto you, for if he desired it for his own, then by your own words you would have no claim to it.”

  “Did you not hear me, Woman?” Baran’s eyes flashed in rage. “Sleeth was not an honorable foe. He had no claim to Blackstone. And if you say that by defeating Sleeth, Elgo’s claim to stolen property is somehow made legitimate, then you are saying that Elgo stands at the same level of honor as Sleeth.”

  Elgo ground his teeth in ire. “What I tell you, Dwarf, is that you must actively pursue a claim for it to stand the test of ownership. Your kind did not; for more than fifteen hundred years you lay no claim, hence all right of dominion was abandoned centuries ago by you and yours. Thus, whether or not Sleeth was an honorable foe is moot!”

  Angrily, Baran stood, his fists clenched. Opposite, Elgo got to his feet as well. And so stood all the Dwarves and Vanadurin, the very air seething with hostility.

  “I will deliver your message, Prince Elgo”—Baran’s voice was fell—“though these words of truth, my words, will go with it. Blackstone was ours, the treasure was ours, until stolen by Sleeth. You now hold that which was ours and refuse to hand it over to the true owners. You are sung of in a hero’s song, yet you have no honor.”

  Rage flared in Elgo’s eye, and his scars again burned red with wrath, and he would have sprung across the table had Ruric not grabbed his arm and restrained him, barking, “They be here under a grey flag.”

  Angrily, Elgo shook off Ruric’s grip. “And who will you deliver my answer to, Dwarf?”

  “To my sire, Brak, DelfLord of Kachar, Rider,” answered Baran, quivering in outrage.

  “Then save your breath, Dwarf,” hissed Elgo, “for I will deliver the message myself.” And he spun on his heel and stalked from the great hall.

  So too did the Dwarves storm from the negotiating room, snatching up their axes, boiling outward from the castle to the stables, saddling ponies to fare north, unwilling to spend even one night in the care of the Harlingar.

  And from the smithy that night came the clanging of hammer upon chisel, anvil ringing with labored strokes as Elgo whelmed upon Dragonhide, preparing a suitable gift for Brak, DelfLord of Kachar.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Purse

  Early Spring, 3E1602

  [This Year]

  Dawn was breaking to a swirling mist as the column of Vanadurin cantered out from the castle. In the lead rode Elgo, the ten survivors of the Dragon-slaying raid following in his wake. Just behind and to Elgo’s right rode Reynor, spear-lance couched in stirrup cup, the attached flag lank in the ground-h
ugging fog, the cloth damply furled about the standard, the white horse rampant upon green field not showing. On Elgo’s left, riding Flint, Ruric fared, the Armsmaster deep in thought. Atop the ramparts stood Elyn and Arianne, the latter with Bram in her arms, all watching the small band set forth, Elyn remaining behind to guide the Realm until either Aranor or Elgo returned. And as the column rode out of sight in the mist, Arianne whispered to Bram and then waved, but whether or not the farewell was answered or even seen, she could not say, for the grey fog had swallowed up the Men.

  The morning wore on, and the Sun at last burned away the field mist. And as the orb rose higher, so did the fire in Elgo’s eye. Rage seethed in his heart, for he could not set aside the image of Baran demanding that the Vanadurin give over the hard-won treasure that the Dwarves had abandoned centuries apast.

  Elgo’s thoughts were incandescent: Thirty died for that gold, all of them heroes, all of them Sons of Harl, the blood of Harl: Harlingar. Nay! ’Twas more than thirty, for steadfast Fjordsmen died as well. And now these Dwarves would set their deaths aside and have them be for nought.

  “Damn all Dwarves and their greed!” Elgo burst out aloud.

  Ruric, at the Prince’s side, cleared his throat.

  “Say what you would, Old Wolf,” growled Elgo, turning his face leftward and looking at the Armsmaster. “You’ve been silent too long as it is.”

  “I be reminded o’ a young impatient lad in a clearing in a thicket long ago, hammering away at staves wi’ a fledgling Warrior Maid,” responded Ruric. “’Twas then I told ye that pride be the downfall o’ many, and that ’twould be yer own undoing one day lest ye learn to control yer prideful temper, yer prideful ways.”