Muttering curses, the Châkka stepped back, blood in their eyes, weapons ready.
The Vanadurin remained in their square.
Now Brak addressed Elgo, his voice spitting in fury: “Come, Jeering Elgo, taste iron.”
Elgo’s scars burned bright with rage, and he leapt forward, saber slashing.
Dring! Brak parried with the helve of his axe, and countered with a forward thrust of the cruel iron axe-beak Dlank! caught by Elgo’s shield.
Shang! Chang! Steel skirled on steel, tortured metal crying out in agony from the fury of those that wielded the weapons. ’Twas axe ’gainst saber and shield, Dwarf ’gainst Man. Brak grasped the black oaken helve with a two-handed grip, right hand high near the blade, left low near the haft butt. And he used the helve to parry Elgo’s saber Thak! while stabbing in return with the steel beak Dank! or shifting his grip to lash the cutting edge in wide sweeping blows Clang! Blang! Elgo fending the axe, slipping the blade along his own.
Dwarves yielded back as the battle raged to and fro before the throne dais, as first one and then the other of the combatants would press the attack; even the battle square of the Vanadurin gave ground before the duel, the Harlingar moving as a unit. Blang! Dlang! Châkka shouted out encouragement, as did the riders, yet neither Brak nor Elgo took notice, fighting on in grim silence.
Quick Elgo bore the brunt of the DelfLord’s blows upon his now-battered shield. Dlang! His reach with the saber was longer, and he pressed Brak back with thrusts and cuts. Shang! Ching!
Steel met steel Chang! Clang! Brak yielding ground. Elgo circled rightward, his saber weaving a swift net of slashing death, a net caught upon a helve of oak, a helve set with a soft brass strip to catch edged weapons. “Châkka shok! Châkka cor! [Dwarven axes! Dwarven might!]” cried Brak, venting the ancient battle cry, echoed by the assembled Dwarves: Châkka shok! Châkka cor! Elgo fought on in silence, but Reynor cried “Hál Jordreich!” giving tongue to the Vanadurin voice, though Ruric and the others watched mute.
Chank! Chang! Both warriors now bled, yet their weapons screamed upon one another. Elgo lunged leftward, avoiding a blow, thrusting upward at the same time. Yet his heel came down upon the glittering golden coin lying in the floor, and his foot skidded out from under him. And as he was falling: Chunk! the axe buried itself in Elgo’s rib cage, blood flying wide. Yet at the very same time, Shkkk! the saber burst through the Dwarven mail, thrusting through Brak’s heart.
The DelfLord fell dead at Thork’s feet.
The axe falling from him, blood gushing uncontrollably, Elgo struggled up and staggered a step or two and collapsed among the Vanadurin, rushing forward to aid him. Ruric knelt on the floor and took the Prince in his arms. Elgo’s eye fluttered open and he looked at the Armsmaster, the youth’s mouth working as if trying to say something. Ruric put his ear next to Elgo’s lips. “Pride,” whispered the Prince, and then he was gone.
The hall exploded in rage, Dwarves surging forward to put an end to these Lord-slayers and looters. But Thork stood up from his dead sire and hurled a raging scream above all others, stepping to one side and whelming the flat of his axe against a stone column BLANG! And the Châkka Captains jerked to a halt, eyes now locked upon the son, leader until the return of Baran.
Thork ground his teeth in rage, and his eyes burned upon the Vanadurin. Thork’s voice grated forth, iron in his words: “Get thee hence unto thy Land and ready thyself for War, for we are coming.” Gesturing at Elgo’s body—“And take that offal with you.”
“Yaaaahhh!” With a wordless yell, Bargo sprang forward murder in his eye, his massive hands raised like claws, claws to rend Thork apart.
Zzzaakk! A crossbow bolt buried itself in Bargo’s chest, the oxlike warrior dead even as he struck the stone, his arms and claw-bent hands still outstretched to grasp Thork, falling mere inches short.
Thork looked down at this dead thief at his feet, the Dwarf saying not a word. All about the Vanadurin came the metallic rustle of black-iron chain mail as cocked crossbows were raised, quarrels aimed at every heart.
“Hold!” Ruric’s voice split the silence, the Armsmaster still kneeling, still clasping Elgo unto him. “We shall take our slain wi’ us, back unto our Land. Yet list to me, Dwarves: Ye need not come unto Jord for War, for instead the Vanadurin will meet ye upon the fields at yer very gates. Prepare yersel’s, O Dwarves, for ’tis we who be coming to avenge our dead.”
Ruric stood and hoisted Elgo over his shoulders, blood running asplash down the Armsmaster to splatter upon the white stone floor. Young Kemp and Arlan raised up Bargo between them, and all the Harlingar started for the exit, while before them a herald cleared the way.
And as they came out upon the steps and down unto their horses, behind them a dolorous bell began clanging out a slow, deep death knell, telling one and all that Brak was dead: Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom! And everywhere that Dwarves heard the sound they cast hoods over their heads, for they were in deep mourning. Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom!
Weeping, the Harlingar tied the bodies across horses: Elgo’s corpse upon Shade; Bargo’s upon his steed, Runner. And the desolate yet enraged Vanadurin mounted up and rode away from the iron gates of Kachar, and all the while behind them a bodeful bell tolled death: Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom!
CHAPTER 21
Retribution
Early Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
In wrath, the Châkka emissaries rode out from Jordkeep, heading for Kachar. It was midafternoon when they set forth, midafternoon of the same day that their first-claim on the trove had been rejected by Elgo, the day that negotiations had fallen into ruin. And so, enraged, they rode out from the keep, even though evening drew nigh, for clearly they would choose to spend the night upon the open range rather than spend one single moment more in the company of looters and thieves. How such Folk as these Riders could have heroes’ songs sung in their honor was entirely beyond Baran’s comprehension. After all, heroes were honorable, yet of a certain, this Elgo was a despoiler.
“Kruk!” burst out Baran in rage, slamming fist into palm, his face dark with anger. “These Riders are plunderers!”
“Aye,” growled Odar, the red-bearded Châk who, during the failed parley, had shouted out that the bards were wrong about the number of times the Châkka had tried to retake Blackstone. “By damn, we should have used our axes to shorten the height of that looter Elgo.”
“Mayhap you are right, Odar,” responded Baran, “yet we will see what it is my sire would have us do about these pillagers. Even so, it would give me great satisfaction to wipe the sneer off the face of that one-eyed thief . . . and to do it with my axe at that.”
Baran’s remarks brought grim smiles to the faces of the Châkka, and they rode onward; yet even though they smiled, anger seethed in their hearts, for they could not banish from their minds’ eyes the image of Elgo scoffing at their legitimate claim, the Man actually denying that Blackstone and the treasure was the rightful, the true, property of the Châkka.
Slowly the Sun slid downward toward the horizon, shadows from the isolated thickets reaching out over the broad prairie toward the distant downs to the east. And across this greening range fared the pony train of the Dwarves. And when night fell, the Dwarves camped upon the wide flat land alongside a solitary coppice, the gentle hills still lying some few miles away. They had covered five leagues that afternoon alone, fifteen miles all told; yet even though that was a goodly stretch for the ponies to have journeyed in but half a day, still, Baran was frustrated at the time it would take to come unto the gates of Kachar. By land, just over sixty leagues lay between Kachar and Aranor’s castle, one hundred eighty-one miles, a journey of some eight days’ duration for the sturdy steeds of the Châkka, if they pressed as hard as Baran intended, twenty-five or so miles a day.
Dawn found the Châkka leader pacing the perimeter of the camp, champing at the bit to be under way. After a hasty breakfast of crue and water for the Dwarves, and grain and water f
or the ponies, at last the emissaries set forth, still faring easterly. All day they rode at a hard pace, stopping now and again to feed the steeds a bit of grain and to take care of other needs. At times they dismounted and led the ponies across the now rolling land, giving the mounts relief from the burden of bearing Dwarven warriors. But always they pushed onward. And that day they covered just under thirty miles.
The next day, in midmorn, Bakkar called up column to Baran: “Lord Baran, riders overtake us.”
Baran swung about in his saddle. Some mile or so to the rear he could see a train of Men on horses cantering along their trail. “Stand ready,” he ordered the Châkka. “They look to be Harlingar, and we know not what to expect from their kind. Even so, still they are not likely to violate a grey flag.”
Swiftly the Men drew onward, overtaking the Dwarves. And when they were nearly even, Baran could see that it was Elgo in the lead, the Man to all intents and purposes faring to Kachar to deliver his message in person unto the DelfLord.
Now the Men passed, their green and white standard snapping in the breeze. The Dwarves glared at these looters, receiving like glares in return. But of a sudden, one large oxlike Man went bouncing past, legs thrust outward, spear waving ineffectually in the air, his voice squealing in mock panic. And all the thieves broke into laughter, roaring and sniggering as they rapidly drew away.
To Baran’s right, Odar unslung his crossbow, fire in his eye.
“Nay, warrior!” barked Baran. “That they’ve somehow insulted us, there is no doubt. Yet we ride ’neath a grey flag. Do not dishonor it with an ill-conceived act.”
Clenching his teeth in rage, muscles jumping in his jaw, slowly Odar returned his crossbow to his back, his eyes never leaving the retreating forms of these Riders.
The Châkka rode all that day and the next two, going some seventy-six miles, faring upward into the foothills of the Grimwall Mountains.
Early afternoon of the following day, the sixth since leaving Aranor’s castle, found them camping at the northwestern entrance to Kaagor Pass. They had stopped after going but fifteen miles, for they could not ride the full length of the gap ere the deep night would be upon them; and to cross the twenty-one miles of the pass, half of it in the frigid dark, was too risky at this uncertain time of the year, when sudden snowstorms could still rage at these heights. Cursing with impatience, reluctantly they camped, knowing that but two more days would bring them unto Kachar; even so, still they would arrive two days behind the looters who had gone before them.
What has my sire done with this Man who sacked Blackstone? wondered Baran as he lay his head down that night. Overhead the heavens sparkled with stars, capturing his gaze; and slowly the Châk’s thoughts turned to Elwydd, Bringer of Life. Yet even as he contemplated Her place in the hearts of the Châkka, a bright spark of light streaked across the sky. Swiftly, Baran turned his face away from the spangle above, for falling stars foretold of death to come. Hence, the Dwarf did not see when another eight flared in close succession, followed quickly by four more.
Baran arose before dawn, a sense of doom urging him to set forth now. Hurriedly, he and the last Châk on watch awoke the others, and they broke camp, saddling up the ponies, stowing their gear. Quickly they consumed a meal, feeding the steeds as well. Then they rode into the gap, false dawn faint in the sky. Up along the stony way they travelled, the air about them chill. An hour they fared, and the sky to the east turned pink through orange and then to blue as the hidden Sun came up over a distant horizon unseen beyond the towering flanks of the Mountains of the Grimwall. And deep in the slot of Kaagor, pony hooves clicked upon rock, and the light of the day seeped down toward the shadows, slowly driving them back into the dark cracks whence they came.
At the crest of the pass, the Dwarven column passed before a dark opening upon the right: it was the empty Troll hole of Golga, Ogru of Kaagor.
“So it was this same Elgo who slew Golga, eh?” grunted Bakkar, the Châk now riding near the head of the column.
“Aye,” growled Baran, “by trick! Just as Sleeth was killed—also by trick.”
“Had we taken on the task,” declared Odar, “we would have done it with honor: by Châkka Troll-slaying squad.”
“Hai!” barked Baran. “Many axes are needed to seal a Troll’s doom, for their hides are like unto stone, yet as we have done in the past, so could we do now. And it would be no trick that would lay the Ogru by the heels. Instead it would be Châkka steel!”
On past the hole clattered the ponies, beginning the descent down the far side of the pass.
Long they rode, another five hours or so, stopping occasionally to take care of the needs of steeds and Châkka, yet Baran always feeling the urgency to press on, for a doom seemed to prey upon his mind, though he could not fathom what it might be.
It was mid of day when the Dwarven column came to the southeasternmost extent of Kaagor Pass, and as they neared the exit . . .
“Lord Baran, Men on horses come,” grunted Odar, pointing a gnarled finger down the way.
Baran looked, and up the entrance into the pass fared a column of riders. It looked to be the thieving Riders, yet the one-eyed Prince did not seem to be among them.
Slowly, the ponies stepped down along the trail toward the Harlingar, and the horses stepped upward toward the Dwarves. And as the two columns neared one another, of a sudden the col echoed with the challenge of a black-oxen horn, and a rider burst forth from the ranks of the Vanadurin.
At dawn, the Harlingar broke camp in the upland forest bordering the marge of the Grimwall Mountains. It was the morn of the day after Elgo and Bargo had been slain. And although the Harlingar had camped when yestereve had fallen, they had gotten little or no rest, for anguish filled their hearts, and thoughts of vengeance occupied their minds: Elgo was slain! And these grasping Dwarves had been his murderers! Yet there was little they could do, nine against hundreds.
And now it was the next day, and the funeral train of the Vanadurin rode onward, the Men at times weeping in frustration and distress, raging at the Dwarves while at the same time mourning their lost comrades, the bodies now wrapped in the waterproof cloaks of their former owners. Long they rode such, slowly wending their way among the trees, and it was near mid of day when they came again unto Kaagor Pass. Red-eyed with grief, they made their way once more into the gap through the Grimwall Mountains, this time travelling in the opposite direction.
In the lead, Reynor stiffened, and called out to the others, his voice filled with hatred: “See who comes.”
Riding down toward them upon ponies fared Baran and his team of negotiators, bearing a familiar grey flag, heading for Kachar.
Stepping their horses up the trail, the Harlingar watched the Dwarves come onward. In the rear of the Vanadurin column, Brade unsheathed his lance, couching it as if for battle. Casting his eyes at the enwrapped corpses draped across the backs of their steeds, “This is for you, my Lord,” he whispered. “This is for you, Bargo.” Then “Yah!” he spurred his mount forward, lance lowered, aimed at the forefront of the oncoming Châkka. And he blew a blast upon his black-oxen horn, Raw! Raw! Raw! the ancient sound of the charge. Past the other Harlingar he hurtled, thundering up the way, horn blaring, running death upon horseback.
“Hold!” yelled Ruric as the youth charged forth, but to no avail, for Brade was past reason.
The Dwarves unslung their weapons as horse and rider in twenty running strides hammered across the space between and crashed into their ranks, the hard-driven spear shattering upon impact, spitting a Dwarven warrior. Swiftly, Brade’s saber flashed from its scabbard, and he chopped downward at another, only to be felled by a quarrel through his breast.
Now Vanadurin charged forward, lances lowered, their own horns belling: Raw! Raw! Raw!
“Hold, by damn, they be under a grey flag!” Ruric shouted, and raised his own horn to his lips, sounding recall—Hahn, taa-roo! Hahn, taa-roo!—to no avail, for the signal was lost among the knelling calls of
the bugling charge . . . and then the battle fury was upon the Harlingar, and his horncry was not heard above the din of combat.
With the shattering sound of steel crashing into steel, the Vanadurin whelmed into the ranks of the Dwarves, spears punching through chain even as answering quarrels flew through the air to pierce mail. And amid screams of death, Dwarves were felled by the numbers, but so too were Vanadurin, brought down by crossbow bolts, as was Brade before them. Yet, the lances of the riders and the mass of the horses and the fury of the charge were simply too much for Dwarves upon ponies to withstand. And swift was the slaughter, for seemingly in but a trice, four surviving riders faced but one Châk afoot. And this one would have died as well but that Ruric rode between the lone Dwarf and the four Harlingar, knocking spears aside with his own, shouting, “Stand down! These be emissaries!” his voice finally heard.
Reluctantly the Vanadurin haled back on their steeds, obeying the Armsmaster at last, though their blood yet ran fever hot.
Ruric swung his horse about, facing the lone surviving Dwarf. ’Twas Baran, and he looked up in hatred at the tall Men on their tall horses. “You have no honor,” Baran’s voice lashed out, “for we were under a grey flag. But now I know it be too much to expect a Rider to understand what honor means. Yet I will give each of you a turn at redeeming yourselves: Which of you will meet me first in single combat? Crowd not forward, for you each shall have your chance.”
His face darkening with wrath, Reynor began to swing his leg over his saddle horn, preparing to leap down from his steed and take Baran up on his challenge. “By damn, I said hold!” roared Ruric, glaring at the youth, breaking through the young Man’s shell of anger; reluctantly, Reynor swung his leg back over his saddle.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 22