Again Ruric looked down at the fierce Châk. “Know that our two nations be at War, Dwarf, for your kind ha’ slain our Prince. Yet know this too: that we be merciful.” Ruric gestured at the battleground. “Gather up yer dead, as we shall gather up ours, and hie unto yer hole in the ground and prepare, for we shall return to extract a full vengeance against ye and yers.”
And so it was that when the Vanadurin rode down out of the pass, they bore six dead, slung across horses.
So, too, did Baran fare unto Kachar, a string of nine slain warriors in his wake. And when at last the hooded Dwarf rode unto the gates with his cortege of ponies bearing the dead, all the way up the vale and to the Châkkaholt itself he could hear the mournful sound of the funeral bell slowly tolling out a dirge of death: Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom! And he choked upon his grief, for then it was that he knew that Brak his sire was dead, and that he, Baran, was the new DelfLord of Kachar.
Thork watched the Vanadurin carry slain Elgo from the Hall, and the great oxlike warrior as well. When they were gone, Thork turned unto the body of his murdered sire, taking hold of the saber hilt and wrenching it from Brak’s chest, holding the dripping blade aloft and snapping the steel in twain, hurling the pieces from him. Casting his hood over his head, Thork bent and lifted up the corpse of his father, bearing him out from the Hall of State and leftward down a corridor, turning at last into the great rotunda, where the Châkka of Kachar honored their dead. With him went the Chief Captains, their heads also cowled, in mourning. And as Thork lay his sire upon the great marble dais, the mighty funeral bell began knelling its slow, deep lamentation: Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom!
Long moments passed, and there came a rustling from the doorway, and the ranks of the Chief Captains parted to permit ingress of a Châkian: ’twas Sien, Brak’s trothmate, the dam of Baran and Thork. As with all Châkia, she was clothed from head to toe in swirling veils, gossamer light, pale in color, her face unseen. Slender she was, perhaps four feet tall. With great dignity, she paced to the dais, her step light upon the polished granite, and lay a gentle hand upon the brow of her mate. And she began a high-pitched keening, and sank to her knees at the base of the marble platform. And all the Captains fled the chamber, for they could not bear such anguish. Thork, too, retreated from the rotunda, for his mother’s grief was too much to behold.
Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom!
Desolate, the warrior blindly made his way back to the Hall of State. And Thork passed by a great stain of blood—Elgo’s blood—upon the white marble floor as he stepped to the mighty throne. And his eye fell upon the Dragonhide pouch lying at the foot of the carven chair, glittering iridescently in the phosphorescent light of the lambent Châkka lanterns. Enraged, Thork bent over, tears falling unto the stone, and snatched up the purse, hurling it from him. And the Dwarf fell into the seat of the throne, his mother’s cries echoing in his mind. And he wept and cursed the Men who had slain his sire, swearing vengeance. And all the while, the Dragonhide lay scintillating upon white marble.
After a long span of time, Thork arose from the great chair of state. And he stalked unto the glittering pouch and took it into his hands. Jeering Elgo said that this would be needed to collect a treasure; well, by damn, I will use it to do so! The Châk warrior’s mind raged as he fingered the hide, Thork seeing a way to turn the iridescent skin against these looters. Striding purposefully to his own quarters, he retrieved his shield and bore it unto his sire’s workroom. And there he took up his father’s tools and with whelming blows began fashioning a shield cover, a device made of Dragonhide, marking a shield that these Riders would come to fear upon sight, for it would be borne by Thork, son of Brak, whose vengeance would be mighty.
It was two days later, in the early afternoon, that Baran came unto the gates of Kachar. And in his wake trailed nine ponies, each bearing a dead Dwarven warrior, each one a treacherously slain emissary.
In the Hall of State, the new DelfLord summoned his Chief Captains unto him. And amid an uproar of rage, he told of the foul deed done by the Riders upon the Châkka column that bore a grey flag. And he bade the Captains to spread the word, and to prepare for a mighty War of retribution.
And then he went to the rotunda and viewed the remains of his sire, and spoke to his grieving dam, but what they said to one another is not recorded.
And Baran ordered that a worthy tomb be carven to hold Brak’s body, clothed in full armor and raiment of state. And he ordained that his father’s great black axe be placed within the grasp of his sire, and that the broken sword of his enemy, of Elgo, be placed at his feet, as was befitting a Châk warrior who had died in combat.
And he ordered that the slain emissaries be placed upon a huge pyre in the vale before the gate.
For in all of this, it was the way of the Châkka—stone or fire, nothing else would serve: Châkka must be laid to rest within pure stone or be placed upon a fitting pyre. For the Dwarves are certain that fire lifts up the spirits of valiant warriors slain, just as stone purifies them. And they are certain that for a Châk to be reborn, the spirit must be freed from the bonds of Mithgar. Hence the dead must not be interred in soil, for root-tangled sod entraps the shade in the darkness, and mayhap an age will pass ere the soul can escape the worm-laden soil. Stone or fire: nothing else will serve.
On the day of the burning, Brak was invested in the white tomb of holding, and would remain there until his own sepulcher was carved. The keening of the Châkia drove the warriors mad with grief, and they would have stormed from the Dwarvenholt and marched upon Jord right then and there had not Baran ordered them to stand down.
And when the days of mourning were done, the days of War were begun.
CHAPTER 22
The Mustering
Mid and Late Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
Rain fell unremittingly from leaden skies. Across the drenched grey land plodded a column of horses, eleven in all, five mounted, six bearing burdens, drawing nearer to the drizzle-shrouded castle standing at the edge of a low range of foothills. It was late in the day when at long last the weary troop neared the iron-clad gates in the dark stone wall, and atop the barbican a sentry called to those below, and the portals swung wide. Dismounting, the Men led the steeds in through the entryway, coming into the open bailey.
“Armsmaster Ruric—” The Gate Captain’s words juddered to a halt as his eyes fell upon the burdens borne by the steeds: six bodies wrapped in weather cloaks.
Whether it was tears or rain that streamed down Ruric’s face could not be ascertained, yet his voice nearly broke as he said, “’Tis Prince Elgo. And Bargo, Brade, Pwyl, Larr, and Fenn. Dwarf-slain all. Lay them in state in the great foyer, then sound the funeral horn.” Ruric ran the back of his hand across his eyes, and gave over the reins of Flint to a stable hand. “Captain, be the King yet returned?”
“Nay, Armsmaster.” The Gate Captain’s voice was hushed. “He still be parleying with the Naudron, for all we know.”
“The Princess Arianne, and Elyn, be they here?”
“Aye, Armsmaster, in the keep.”
Without another word, Ruric trudged through the downpour and toward the keep, his feet leaden; while behind him, grieving Men followed, leading the horses with their sad burdens. Inside, a page informed the Armsmaster that both Ladies were in Princess Elyn’s quarters.
As Ruric strode up the steps he could hear the silvery glissade of Women’s laughter, and he could do nought but steel himself for what was to come. He entered a room illumed by a crackling blaze in the fireplace, pressing back the chill of the drear day. Bram waddled across the carpet, the child bearing the small silver horn glittering orangely in the amber light cast from the fire. The Princess stood across the chamber, her face alight with humor, Arianne at her side, each Lady glowing with joy at the moppet’s antics. For Elyn had winded the horn for Bram, and now the tot himself tried to coax the clarion call forth from the argent metal, setting it to his mouth and puffing stoutly to no ava
il, his efforts bringing forth gales of laughter from Elyn and Arianne.
Once more Bram blew, his essay so fierce that he fell whump! on his bottom. And again Elyn’s and Arianne’s laughter rang forth, tears of merriment streaming down each face.
And Ruric stepped forth from the enshadowed doorway and into the ruddy firelight, his armor casting back scarlet glints, except where stained darkly with the blood of a Prince slain five days past, a stain now seeping with the soak of the rain.
Faces full of mirth, both Elyn and Arianne looked up to see the travel-worn Armsmaster, bespattered with mud, water dripping from drenched cloak. “Ruric!” exclaimed Elyn, yet with but a glance she knew something dire was amiss. Arianne, too, sensed a doom; “Elgo,” she breathed, clenching her fists, bracing, but said no more. And both Women held themselves in check as Ruric knelt upon one knee.
“Princess”—whom he addressed, Elyn or Arianne, it is not certain—“my Lord Elgo be slain—”
—What he said beyond that, Arianne did not hear, for a great numbness fell upon her spirit, and she felt as if her heart had died in that dreadful moment—
“—by the hand o’ Brak, DelfLord o’ Kachar, whom Elgo slew in return—”
—Elyn could not believe the words that were coming from Ruric’s lips, and she stooped and picked up Bram, holding onto the child as if he were an oak in a windstorm—
Ruric’s words went on, yet Elyn did not hear aught till “—a courier to fetch King Aranor, for War be upon us—”
At that moment from the bailey below came the mournful funeral knell of the Vanadurin, the black-oxen horn slowly calling out far and wide to all within hearing that Prince Elgo was slain in combat: Roon! . . . Roon! . . . Roon!
And in that same moment Arianne slumped to the floor unconscious, her mind and heart and soul fleeing into oblivion, while outside the bleak sky wept cold grey tears.
The next day, under a somber overcast, Elgo was laid to rest among the barrow mounds. He was dressed in full armor, and his weaponry and shield—battered and scarred by Dwarven axe—were interred with him, a new saber in his scabbard. Too, in a mound alongside their Prince, Bargo as well as the four slain in Kaagor Pass—Brade, Pwyl, Larr, and Fenn—were laid to eternal rest as well.
During the ceremonies, Elyn glanced up to see five warriors standing across from her on the opposite side of Elgo’s grave: Arlan, Reynor, Roka, Ruric, and Young Kemp. Five warriors: none else lived from the forty-one that had ridden forth to slay Sleeth.
Desolate, Ruric knelt at the graveside; and he reached down and pressed a small golden coin into his dead Prince’s palm, closing Elgo’s cold fist about it—a coin retrieved from a blood-stained floor of a stone Dwarvenholt, a coin that in more ways than one had led to the death of this proud youth.
Eyes filled with tears, the Armsmaster stood, and solemn attendants carefully covered the Prince. And then they began lading the barrow with sweet earth, mounding it, mantling all with green turves, while stricken mourners stood beneath drear skies, stood grieving while Elgo was buried, the dead youth clad in princely raiment, bearing his arms, wearing his armor, and grasping a small golden coin.
Late that day, Elyn set out from the castle, riding forth upon the plains in the long light of the foredusk, Elgo’s horse, Shade, on a trailing tether behind. A time she rode until at last she came unto the Kingsherd, and there she dismounted and loosened the bridle, slipping it away from Shade’s head. “Run free, black horse, run free,” whispered Elyn, her eyes brimming. “Run as Elgo would have you, could he but say. . . .” Suddenly Elyn’s grief welled up within, and bitter tears choked her; and she held onto Shade sobbing, the black standing patiently, nickering softly, while a Princess clasped him about the neck and wept for a brother slain.
Four days following, in early afternoon, King Aranor rode in with his retinue, his eyes bleak with unresolved grief. He had set forth but a month or so past, and all was well within his Realm. He had concluded an agreement with the Naudron that would set to rest this eternal skirmishing between them, exchanging a gift of horses for a gift of falcons, sealing the treaty. But now all seemed shambles, for three days past as his train fared southwesterly toward the castle, a courier had come galloping among them bearing dire news: his son was slain and his nation verged upon War.
On the steps before the great oaken doors stood Arianne, and at her side Bram. Elyn, too, awaited the King, as well as Mala. Wearily, Aranor dismounted, handing the reins of Flame to an attendant. “Bear word to those who accompanied Elgo on his fated mission to Kachar,” he grated to a nearby page. “I would see them in the War room at sunset.”
With leaden feet, Aranor trudged up the steps, and Arianne stepped forward and embraced him and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes laden with tears. Elyn, too, clasped her sire, hugging him long ere loosing him, though her eyes remained dry. Aranor bent down and swept up Bram, pressing the child close unto him, turning his face away, peering to the west so that none could see his grief. And Bram’s small hands tugged at Aranor’s red-gold beard, age-streaked with grey; and Mala would have taken the child then, but Aranor shook his head, for Elgo as a wee bairn had done the same. Then it was that grief came unto the King, and with tears streaming down his face, he clasped Bram in his strong arms and strode across the bailey and out the foregate and unto the barrows. And none followed him on his pilgrimage. And only Bram heard what he had to say.
Aranor entered a room illumed by horizontal rays of the foredusk Sun, and at a small table before a window sat Elyn, her saber in one hand, a whetstone in the other, sharpening the weapon’s edge to a bitter keenness, the upheld blade slicing the very sunlight itself, the orange rays slashed into glittering shards where sunbeam met steel. Sshkk, sshkk, sounded stone on metal. Sshkk, sshkk. Methodically, slowly, her hands drew the oiled hone along the cutting edge. Sshkk, sshkk. Behind her, soft grey leathers hung upon a stand, readied for combat, her black-oxen horn adrape o’er a shoulder. Too, Aranor could see that her bow gleamed with wax, and full quivers depended from wall pegs, the green-fletched arrows carefully arranged. There as well leaned her spear-lance, sharpened blade glistening. Sshkk, sshkk.
Before the open fire stood Arianne, gazing into its depths as if seeking a vision beyond seeing. She did not look up as Aranor stepped to her side. And he took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. Her eyes were sunken in dark hollows, and were filled with a desolation nearly beyond bearing. Aranor’s hand dropped back to his side, and his words fell softly: “Daughter, they tell me that you’ve eaten little, and spend your time within the private quarters, ne’er joining the others below.”
Sshkk, sshkk.
Arianne turned her face to the fire once more, her lashes trembling with unshed tears. Her voice came low, and was filled with a soft agony: “Oh, Sire, why did Adon take him from me? My heart’s very beat is gone. My breath is no more. My blood has fled. I want to die.”
Again Aranor reached out to her, gently taking her by the shoulders and swinging her to face him. “I’ll not answer for the Allfather, my Daughter, for only He knows His plan, only He can pierce the veil of what was, and what is to be. But this I do know, Child: ye must press on, keep up your strength, for Bram needs ye. And wee Bram is all we have left of Elgo.”
Arianne’s soft reply was nigh lost in the pop of burning log. “Yes, Bram needs me. But I need Elgo. He was my life.”
“He was my son.”
He was my brother. Sshkk, sshkk.
“He was my love.”
“He was my heir.”
He was my twin. Sshkk, sshkk.
“Ah, god, my soul is filled with grief.”
“. . . with regret.”
. . . with hatred. Sshkk, sshkk.
“I would have solace.”
“. . . justice.”
. . . revenge. Sshkk, sshkk.
Slowly the rays of the Sun crept up the far wall as the golden orb slid down the sky, the disk now sinking beyond the far horizon. None said aug
ht, the only sounds being the siss of the fire and the steady sshkk, sshkk of hone on steel. What thoughts spun through the webs of their minds, it is not known. But at last the hush was broken:
“We will get them, Father.” Elyn’s voice was low—sshkk, sshkk—barely audible, her eyes focused upon the razor-sharp saber, her gaze burning with a bitter fire. “They will pay. They will pay.”
Now Aranor stepped to his daughter’s side, the King reaching out his hand and stilling the whetstone, removing it from Elyn’s grasp and setting it down next to the oil flask on the table beside her scabbard.
With deliberate slowness, Elyn laid the saber across her knees and then looked up at her father, a darkness deep within her eyes. “I ready for War, Sire.”
“Nay, Elyn, you ready for the coming of Death.” Aranor’s voice held a chill bite. “I have seen this look of yours upon the faces of other warriors as they, too, prepared for battle, and they did not survive to tell of it.”
“He was my twin,” she whispered, as if that explained all. “He was my twin.”
“Aye, twin yes,” answered Aranor, “but that gives you no leave to think of”—his words struck with deadly accuracy—“riding alone among the teeming enemy, reaping their blood to pay for that which they took from us, riding alone into battle to wreak a vengeance beyond bearing, knowing that Death will find you hacking and slashing unto the very end.”
“But that’s what I would do, Sire!”—her voice filled with venom—“Slay as many as I can before they bring me down.”
With an agonized cry, Arianne ran from the chamber ere any could stop her, though Aranor called out, “Arianne!” Yet Elgo’s widow heeded him not, and was gone.
Wearily, the King dropped into a seat opposite Elyn, the small table between them, fatigue dragging at his frame. “Now list to me, Daughter: Once I promised you that none would gainsay your right to ride into battle . . . and none shall. Still, War is come upon us, and this is what I propose to do: I mean to take the battle unto Kachar, unto the very Dwarvenholt itself.
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