Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis L McKiernan

  She was joined in this endeavor by Mala, who, for the first time in her life, found something at which she was gifted. Mala seemed to have a natural flair for logistics, and swiftly gathered facts and figures and the rules of thumb necessary for maintaining the King’s Host, whether near or far afield.

  And as Aranor and his staff would assemble in the War room to plan the campaign, Elyn and Mala would join in the council, scribbling notes unto themselves, or asking just where in Hèl this or that commander supposed he would get the supplies needed for some outrageous scheme, and suggesting the types of goods that they could get to the battlefield, and the means of transporting them.

  And after such councils, Aranor would approach the two of them and grin, saying, “Garn! This War will be won or lost right here at the keep, for here begins the lifeline that will sustain mine Host when we stand before the iron gates of Kachar. Yet, hearken unto me: I be in the best hands available when I be in the hands of you twain.”

  And suddenly the time was come upon them: the fortnight had fled. Red flags had swept across the nation and the swift muster was done, though in the days to come other Harlingar would drift past, heading for Kaagor Pass and Kachar beyond. And the hastily assembled Host prepared for departure, for at the dawning of the morrow, Aranor would lead them in a War of retribution.

  Hundreds of wains filled with supplies stood out upon the prairie, and hundreds more would assemble in the coming weeks, for an army’s appetite is nearly insatiable, and game afield swiftly exhausted. Too, herds of cattle stood lowing amid the lush grass, to be driven in the wake of the Men.

  That last night Elyn and Mala pored over the books, noting what was to arrive in the near future, noting what was already on slow wheels heading for the front e’en now. And when Elyn retired at last, exhausted, her mind awhirl with lists of supplies and schedules, she wondered what factor had been overlooked, what need would come that they were unprepared to meet. But ere any answers came, she was fast asleep.

  The next morning Aranor led Elyn to the throne room and sat her upon the chair of state. “Here, Daughter, I leave the Realm in your hands. None of us know what Fortune has in store for us. But this I do know: I will be far afield for some time to come. And you will be here dealing with the governance of the Kingdom. Chance and circumstance oft’ lay out a different course from the one first charted, calling for decisions unforseen. Only you, and none other, will be able to select among the choices given you. Only you will be able to decide what is the best course to follow. But heed me! Listen to the advice of those that you trust before making your decisions, whatever they may be. Rely upon their knowledge, their wisdom, their talent, and give over to them the responsibilities that they can best fulfill. At times they will have the better skills to accomplish that which need take place, at other times it will depend upon you and you alone to do what must be done. Regardless, yours will be the final decision: consider well the choices you are given, and do that which is best for the Realm, for that be the responsibility of the one who sits in this chair.”

  Aranor now raised his daughter up and embraced her and kissed her farewell. And she hugged him fiercely and bade him to strike Elgo’s murderers a blow they would never forget, yet above all to remain safe.

  And they strode out into the bailey, where awaited the King’s escort of Reachmarshals. And Aranor mounted up on the great stallion Flame, and with his entourage rode out before the gates and among his Host. And a thunderous shout rose up into the air thrice: Hál, Aranor! Hál, Aranor! Hál, Aranor!

  And amid a clamorous sounding of black-oxen horns, slowly, like a great long columnar creature, the mighty Host of Harlingar wended out upon the prairie, flanked far and wide by outriders, scouts, dimly seen in the distance.

  And atop the barbican, alongside most of the staff of the keep, Elyn watched as the riders and waggons slowly drew away. Then the herds of cattle were driven after, following in the wake of the Host, as was the plan.

  If I were but a wee girl, then this would be most exciting. Yet all I feel is apprehension and disappointment: apprehension, for Men ride off to a War from which many will not return; disappointment, for I go not with them.

  Long Elyn watched, but at last turned to make her way back into the keep. And she passed among those left behind: for the most part Women and old Men and young boys and girls, too old or too young or too unskilled in the ways of War. Garn! Should a calamity befall this keep, we will be hard pressed to deal with it.

  CHAPTER 23

  Lost Trump

  Late Spring, 3E1602

  [This Year]

  Far to the east and south, on the austral slopes of the Grimwall Mountains, in the Dwarvenholt of Kachar, two brothers sat and spoke of the trove and a treasure that once lay within Blackstone.

  “And these Riders, they let you see the hoard?” The speaker was Thork.

  “Aye,” growled Baran, now DelfLord of the Châkkaholt. “They paraded us before our stolen riches as would a marauding gang of jeering reavers show their plunder to the victims of their depredations.”

  The two of them sat in Brak’s workshop—they still referred to the chamber as Brak’s workshop even though their sire was slain—and prepared for the battles to come.

  “And what of the horn? Did you see aught of it?” Thork polished his new-made Dragonhide shield with a soft flannel cloth, the blue-green light of Dwarven lanterns shattering upon the scintillant scales, sparkling and scattering, winging to the eye.

  “Nay,” grunted Baran. “Though we looked long and hard at the trove, we saw it not. Yet that does not mean it was not there. It is small, and easily could have been hidden under the piles of silver and gold.”

  “Mayhap it is at the bottom of the sea,” mused Thork, “for Tarken said that the Jordians claim most of the hoard had gone to join the Madûks in the Great Maelstrom.”

  “Mayhap, Thork. Mayhap.” Baran ran the oiled cloth across links of his black-iron mail. “And mayhap it was destroyed in the dire spume of Sleeth, though Mastersmith Kaor says that it is reputed to be made of starsilver, and even a Drake’s drip would not mar its surface, at least so he surmises.” Suddenly Baran slammed his fist to the table. “Arr! This musing, this speculation is useless! When we bring the Riders down then we shall know, for then we shall recover that which is rightfully ours . . . then we shall be certain.”

  Silence reigned between them for long moments. “It would not do for that trump of doom to fall into the wrong hands,” said Baran at last, his voice grim.

  Of a sudden the door burst open and a grime-spattered scout appeared, his feet ringing upon the stone as he strode forward. Approaching the DelfLord, he bowed. “King Baran, I have come at haste by the secret ways from the northern slopes. The Riders approach the Grimwall. They will debouch from Kaagor Pass by mid of day on the morrow, and their numbers are vast.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Before the Gate

  Late Spring, Early Summer, 3E1602

  [This Year]

  The Sun was passing through the zenith when the Host of Jord debouched from Kaagor Pass, coming down into the woods along the mountain slopes. Out before the army, scouts rode among the trees, faring to flank and fore and sweeping wide, ascertaining that the way was clear, free from ambush and trap.

  Nearly five thousand strong was Aranor’s Legion now, for other musterers had overtaken the Host along its overland journey, swelling the ranks by some five hundred more. And this army, riders all, followed in the wake of the scouts and passed among the trees of the upland forest.

  Leagues behind, still faring to come unto the pass, rolled the supply waggons, a caravan escorted by a Warband, for the cargo they bore—food and grain—was precious, and it would not do to have it fall into enemy hands. Even so, the Host of Aranor carried enough provisions, in saddlebags and on packhorses, for both Man and steed to exist for a week or more ere the lagging train caught up to the main body.

  And even father behind came the cattle drove. The h
erd would not fare up through Kaagor Pass, but would remain instead in the grass of the foothills upon the northern side of the Grimwall, the stock being slaughtered and dressed out and borne across the range and to the Host as needs dictated.

  But it was not upon the trailing supplies that Aranor’s mind dwelled. Instead, his attention was focused on the land before the Host, for in that direction lay the enemy. And his eye kept straying to the flanks, where could come sudden attack. Yet little did he see, for in this place the woodland was thick with pine, and needled greenery barred any distant view, though now and again he caught a glimpse of one of his own outriders.

  And through this deep wood rode the Legion, a great mounted army faring among the trees: pine yielding to aspen and silver birch and other upland trees, some now putting forth their new green leaves, the winter dress giving way before the quickening season. Often they would stop and rest the steeds, for the land was canted, and full of folds, and negotiating the terrain was taxing on the horses. Too, they had to wend a twisting course to pass through the crowded timberland.

  And the Sun slipped down the sky as they wound among the pines, the day lengthening the shadows behind. Even so, it was not full dusk when the Host came unto the slopes falling down into the vale whose northerly reach rose up to meet Kachar. And Aranor and his commanders sat ahorse in the edges of the upland forest and peered toward the great iron gates of the Dwarvenholt. Yet they could not tell if the portals were open, for the mountainside had fallen into shadow, and no light shone forth from the holt of their enemies. A sudden shiver shook Aranor’s frame, but whether from the chill of the mountains creeping down the slopes, or whether from some unknown portent, he could not say.

  As dawn brightened in the sky and the day came full upon the land, the Jordian King and his commanders stood at the edge of the stand of silver birch. Behind them an army encamped within the forest, its perimeters warded by pickets. To the fore a gentle sward sloped down to the foot of an open vale, a vale running northward and rising up to collide with the harsh granite of the Grimwall, the dark stone of the mountains bursting upward from the fettering rock below. And in the distance now could be seen the closed iron gates of Kachar.

  “I like it not, Lord,” muttered the small, wiry, fox of a Man to Aranor’s left, his eyes sweeping up the length of the valley. “It is strait, and they will hold the high ground, and our horses needs must charge upslope. It will slow us, and we cannot bring all our force to bear.”

  “Aye, Vaeran,” replied Aranor, his own look troubled. “That much I can see.”

  “Hah!” exclaimed Reachmarshal Einrich, swinging his bulk to face Vaeran. “They will be afoot, without our mobility, hence will not have great advantage in that matter.”

  “Aye, there is that. Still, I mislike it,” growled Vaeran. “Anytime a horse be slowed, it is not to our avail. Anytime a field be strait, flanking comes hard.”

  “Say again what weaponry they will wield, m’Lord,” called Marshal Roth, his northern accent all but unnoticeable.

  Aranor turned an eye to Ruric. “Armsmaster?”

  “Axes, warhammers, crossbows,” replied Ruric, “those be the weapons we ha’e seen. Too, some bear shields, and wear black chain.”

  “Hah!” burst out Einrich again. “Horse-driven lance will make short shrift of shield and chain”—his countenance darkened—“but these crossbows, they be another thing.”

  “As we planned, Einrich, our own bowmen will deal with them.” Reachmarshal Richter’s voice was soft, yet there was steel in his words.

  “Look, Lord,” hissed Marshal Boer, “there be activity at the badger’s den.”

  In the distance, from a side postern high upon the stone of Kachar came a troop of Dwarves, clambering down a carven set of narrow steps leading to the granite forecourt, unslinging weapons and taking up a stance before the great iron gates, a guard of honor.

  “Methinks this be their signal, Lord,” gritted Ruric.

  “Aye, mayhap you are right, Armsmaster,” answered Aranor. “Call Reynor unto me, for it be time to speak to the grasping foe.”

  The Dwarven scouting party returned via a secret gate into the halls of Kachar. Wending through a labyrinthine set of tunnels, they came swiftly to the War Chamber. There, ringed about a large circular table, awaited the Chief Captains of the Châkka Host, DelfLord Baran part of the circle, Prince Thork at his side.

  “We count nearly five thousand of the thieves, Lord Baran,” spake the Chief Scout, a young black-bearded Dwarf dressed in the mottled leathers that made him and his band all but invisible in woodland as well as upon slopes of stone. “Spears, bows, sabers, long-knives they bear. Some have shields much the same as that which Jeering Elgo bore.” A rustle of metal sounded as Châkka shifted at mention of this name. “All wear chain. All are mounted.

  “They camp within the Silverwood on the east slope, here”—the scout traced a rough circle upon a spread map—“and sentries ward their flanks.”

  “You are certain of their numbers, Dakan.” Thork’s comment was more of a statement than a question.

  “Aye, Prince Thork”—Dakan’s words brooked no doubt—“we counted them as they fared through the pass, again as they came forth, and then tracked them to the grounds of their camp.”

  Thork grunted his acknowledgement, turning to Baran. “Five thousand they number, and we but three.”

  “Just so,” growled Baran. “But three thousand or two thousand or just one, still shall we whelm these brigands to earth. Still shall we gain that which is rightfully ours.”

  Muttered oaths of affirmation rumbled ’round the table.

  Baran cleared his throat as if to say more, yet a black-mailed warrior entered the hall, his hard strides ringing upon the stone as he purposefully made his way to Baran’s side and softly spoke to the DelfLord.

  Baran stood. “A crowned Rider and a standard bearer near the gate. It would seem that they come to parley. The dance of Death has begun.”

  Baran strode from the chamber, Thork at his side, as sound erupted behind them and warriors scrambled to follow.

  The Dwarven gate warders stood before the great iron portal and watched as two riders cantered up the vale: one on a flame-red steed, the Man wearing a crown; the other sat astride a grey and bore a flag, a white horse rampant upon a field of green. As they neared the gate, the flag bearer blew a note upon a black horn, the sound flat and commanding. Still some distance away, they reined their mounts to a halt, and again the note of command sounded from the horn.

  In that moment, DelfLord Baran and Prince Thork stepped through the postern and descended down the narrow stair. They paced to the center of the foregate court and peered long at the horsemen sitting in the vale below them.

  Baran turned to Thork. “I will go down and speak with this Rider King, and see what he would say.”

  “Let me bear your standard, Baran,” entreated Thork, “for I mistrust these Men.”

  “Nay, Thork,” responded Baran. “I, too, mistrust them, yet should something happen to me, then you will be next DelfLord. We cannot put both of us at jeopardy, my brother.”

  “Baran, it is not that much risk,” countered Thork. “See, the flagbearer wears no weapon, as is the custom of those who would negotiate. It would seem that they have come to parley.”

  “Hah!” barked Baran. “You cannot have it both ways, Thork: you cannot at one and the same time declare your mistrust in them, and in the next breath maintain that their intentions are honorable and the risk small. Nay, Brother, I shall go forth with Bolk as my bearer.” Baran turned to the red-haired Chief Captain of the guard and nodded, and Bolk shed his weaponry and took up the battle flag of Kachar, crossed silver axes upon a field of black. And down into the vale they strode, Captain Bolk weaponless and bearing the standard, DelfLord Baran armed with an axe slung upon his back.

  Aranor and Reynor sat ahorse midway between the mountain walls and watched as the two Dwarves marched down toward them. The two Harlinga
r had shunned the road that led up to the gate, deliberately riding up the center of the vale to better survey the likely battleground. Up the long vale they had come, its shoulders narrowing with every stride of the horses. Past the rune-marked Realmstone they had ridden, the strange Dwarven glyphs deeply etched into the dark stone. Up the grassy valley they had come, along a crystalline stream dashing down its center. Past a wide scorch upon the ground they had cantered, a place where a great pyre must have burned not so long ago, yet these two riders did not know what may have occurred thereupon. Up the vale they had hammered, and all the while their eyes had swept across the terrain they passed through, gauging its suitability for warfare, scanning for horse traps, pits disguised. Yet at last they had stopped, somewhat beyond the range of a crossbow, and Reynor had sounded the call to parley. And now the Dwarves had responded, for two on foot came advancing down the vale, one bearing a silver-glinting black flag stirring in the drifting air.

  At last the pair of Dwarves came to stand before the mounted Vanadurin, stopping some twenty feet or so upslope, Baran unslinging his axe and grounding its cruel iron beak in the loam, leaning upon the helve.

  “My Lord Aranor,” announced Reynor, “this be Emissary Baran, the one who made such outrageous claims upon the abandoned trove.”

  “Outrageous—” sputtered Captain Bolk. “This be King Baran, DelfLord of Kachar, survivor of Rider foul treachery, son of slain Brak. And now, who be this crowned thief before us?”