Reynor’s face flushed scarlet with anger, and he would have leapt from his horse but for Aranor’s “Hold!”
Then Aranor turned his face toward Baran and spoke, his words answering Bolk’s question, but it was clear that he addressed the DelfLord and none other. “This so-called thief be Aranor, King of Jord, sire of slain Elgo, Prince of Jord, Sleeth’s Doom, Liberator of Blackstone, and rightful possessor and true owner of Sleeth’s hoard.”
Now Baran clenched the haft of his axe, his knuckles white with anger. “You cannot invest honor unto a thief merely by calling him a Liberator, merely by naming him Sleeth’s Doom, for by any name he is still a thief. If you would name him true, then Foul Elgo, you mean; Elgo the Japer, you mean.”
Baran flung up a hand to stay the angry words springing to Aranor’s lips, the Dwarf continuing: “Heed! If you would restore honor unto your nation, return to us that which is ours by right, for then and only then can you claim to be anything other than a nation of thieves.”
“Grasping Dwarf”—Aranor’s voice was low, dangerous—“if you would have the treasure that you abandoned and my son and his comrades won, then you must wrest it from us. And if you somehow could succeed in taking it from us—something that even in the wildest stretch of an addled imagination is still inconceivable—then all nations upon Mithgar would revile you, for it is ours by right of conquest, by right of salvage, by whatever name you may call it. By any measure, it is not now your property and has not been for centuries.
“Too, I would give you some advice, though you are not likely to listen, but still I offer it: if you would save gold in the future, then by damn fight for it instead of running and hiding and abandoning all claim; and never, never, let your greed o’errule what is right, for that leads to the path of utter destruction by the Just.”
All the time that Aranor was speaking, Baran’s face grew darker and darker with rage. “You speak of that which you name true, which you name Just, yet I see that at your right hand you depend upon one who violates the grey flag, O Mighty King of Jord,” gritted the DelfLord, his eyes locked upon Aranor’s, his barb accurately cast, striking home, for Reynor could not bring his gaze to bear upon the Dwarf. “But it surprises me not that this transgressor is in your company, for I deem all Riders to be chiselled from the same defective stone.
“Hearken! You speak as if that which our labor won was your property merely because you took it from a Dragon thief. But thieves stealing from thieves does not alter the fact that the property does not and never will belong to the last thief holding it.”
“By Adon, Dwarf,” exploded Aranor, “we are not thieves stealing from thieves! We are warriors who slew a monster, and took by right of conquest that which you abandoned ages agone. It is your greed for gold that drives you to such insane claims. It is you who would be the thief. But, by damn, if you would have that trove, then you’ll have to slay every last one of us to get it!”
“Just so, Rider! Just so!” Baran’s face was black with wrath. “And that is what we intend. Right here!”—he raised up his axe and violently thrust the iron beak down into the earth at his feet—“Right now!”
Aranor ground his teeth in rage. “So be it.” His angry eye swept upward across the sky. “Yet, Dwarf, not today, but rather on the morrow’s dawn.”
Baran’s answer jerked out through his own clenched teeth as he wrenched his axe from the soil. “On the morrow’s daūn.”
And as the Dwarves spun aheel and stalked upward toward the dark iron gates of Kachar, the Men wheeled their horses about and galloped down and across the vale, hieing unto the silver wood upon the distant slope.
“I chose the dawn because the Sun will be in their eyes”—Aranor’s shadowed gaze swept across the faces of his commanders—“offsetting their advantage of the high ground.”
It was dark, and they stood about a small field table, a sketch of the vale before them, illumed by lantern. During the day, scouts had ridden the morrow’s battleground, and every inch of the valley was represented on the chart, each special feature well noted—all the knolls and swales; hummocks; streams, down to the smallest rivulet; large boulders; places upon the mountain slopes where archers could gain vantage; tracts where horses would be slowed, and those where they would fly across the terrain; and other such needed battle knowledge—the Vanadurin scouts had marked it all.
And now the King and his commanders carefully studied the plat, noting where advantage could be gained and lost, given the actions of the enemy they faced. Long into the night they schemed, strategies and tactics bandied back and forth, trying to anticipate every move of friend and foe alike; and all about them encamped Men waited, tendrils of smoke threading upward from their small campblazes, glimmers of light in the darkness. Gathered into rope pens, horses stood quietly, munching upon fodder, stamping now and again, some nickering softly, a pale Moon overhead. And out on the perimeters, sentries stood alert, watchful eyes sweeping past the argent boles of the silver trees. And in the end, only these warders stood awake, for all others at last succumbed to weariness, many tossing restlessly, falling into dark dreams of the coming conflict.
It was much the same in the Châkkaholt of Kachar.
When dawn crept upon the land, on the western mountain slopes the great gates of Kachar swung wide, and Dwarven warriors issued forth in what seemed an endless stream. Down into the swale they marched, down before the gates, spreading out across the northern reach of the valley, the tread of their steps striking hard upon the earth. Black was their mail and glittering their hammers and axes, and light shone brightly upon their bucklers. In the fore strode archers, intricate crossbows in their grasps, quarrels at hand in hard leather quivers. And among the vanguard marched DelfLord Baran, a black standard with crossed silver axes proclaiming the Dwarf King’s place.
On the slope at the foot of the vale Aranor sat astride Flame and watched. To his right sat Reynor, the battle flag flying from his standard. Flanking them to right and left were the Harlingar commanders. And behind, in long rows, sat rank after rank of Vanadurin, pennons cracking in the breeze, the Host of Jord.
“My Lord,” said Vaeran, “they form a square, reserves in the center. Two thousand I deem to be their numbers. Their sunward flank be on the edge of the scree; it will be hard, mayhap impossible, to round on them from that quarter.” Vaeran spoke of what appeared to be an old rockslide that had tumbled from the steeps of the mountains hemming the vale, leaving a jumble of stone that a horse could not negotiate at speed. And the Dwarves now used the mass of talus to ward their sunward flank, nullifying Aranor’s strategy of attacking from out of the slanting bright light.
“Then, m’Lord,” boomed Einrich, “I suggest we take them head on.”
“There is this, Aranor”—Gannor’s firm voice cut through the air—“they take up a stance where the vale be strait. But see, their left flank: it is somewhat in the open. I deem with but a slight smile from Fortune, we could bring a brigade to bear upon it.”
“Then it would be we who would attack with the Sun in our eyes,” Richter observed. “Yet I think it a sound plan, for we may break their square. Let my brigade take on this task.”
“So be it,” ordered King Aranor. “Richter on the left, swinging ’round to take their flank. Einrich in the center, a head-on charge. Vaeran to the left, between the two. Hrosmarshal Gannor on the right.”
“And you, m’Lord,” queried Vaeran, “where will you ride?”
“Why, square in the center, Reachmarshal,” answered Aranor, “with Einrich’s brigade.”
“Hah!” barked Einrich, chortling, his great bulk jiggling with mirth. “We shall make these gold lusting Dwarves sing a different tune, my King.”
“Just so, Einrich,” responded Aranor. “Now, Commanders, inform your Captains of the battle plan.” Gripping his black-oxen horn in his fist, he raised it up. “We ride upon my signal.”
Still the Dwarves marched into position, but at last they had formed their squar
e. And now they but stirred about, taking up their assigned posts.
Even so, Aranor waited.
At last came a horncall, ringing down the canyon walls of the vale: Roo! Roo! It was the belling of a Dwarven horn: Baran’s announcement that he awaited.
Raising his black-oxen horn to his lips, Aranor sounded a Vanadurin call: A-rahn! [Alert!]
Behind him, the thicket of spears of the Host stirred. The spirited horses, as if knowing the meaning of the horncall, as if sensing the tensions of their riders, pranced, sidle-stepping in their nervousness, or perhaps in eagerness to be underway.
Flame, too, stuttered his hooves upon the sod, dancing left then right. And in the saddle, Aranor raised his horn once more: Taaa! Taaa! [Forward at a walk!]
And the Host of Jord slowly moved upslope, like some great ponderous living tide.
Up the land they went, into the narrowing valley, and then—Ta-ta! Ta-ta! [At a trot! At a trot!]—the pace quickened.
Onward came the Host, the land now quivering beneath the hooves. Ta-ti-ta! Ta-ti-ta! [At a canter! At a canter!]
Closer they came, and closer still; and now the opposing forces could see the faces of one another. Ta-ra! Ta-ra! [At a gallop! At a gallop!]
Now the earth rumbled at their passage, and lances were lowered for the charge. And now Aranor blew mighty blasts upon his horn, and it was taken up by all of the Host: Raw! Raw! Raw! The sound rang throughout the vale, slapping back from perpendicular stone, the ancient call to charge. Horses hammered up the slope, now running full apace, their legs a flying blur, sod flinging up behind, the entire world seeming to tremble. And the Sun glinted wickedly from steel spear tip, thrust out to bring Death to the foe.
In the fore of the Dwarven Host, Baran watched as the irresistible wave hurtled toward him. “My Lord, now!” called the bugler, yet Baran waited a moment more, feeling the earth shake ’neath his feet. And then at last he barked out a command, and the golden horn rang forth. And of a sudden crossbow quarrels sleeted through the air, and hidden pikes were swung up and over the forefront, the butts of their hafts grounded in the slope, their barbarous blades slanting forward.
And into this deadly hail of quarrels and upon this slashing steel barricade the wave of Harlingar crashed.
Riders pitched backwards over cantles, punctured through, to be trampled by those who came behind. Horses were impaled upon the steel-tipped poles braced ’gainst the earth and fell screaming unto the ground. More coursers hammered through, whelming into the iron wall of Dwarves, steeds and Men alike dying upon the cruel fangs of War.
Even so, more Harlingar crashed into the Dwarven square, horses leaping over the forefront and smashing down among the ranks of the Châkka, and the Vanadurin lances shattered in the breasts of the black-mailed forked-bearded Folk.
Sweeping ’round the opening on the left side of the Dwarf formation, Richter led the brigade of the East Reach in a flanking movement, bringing his force to bear like the other half of a nutcracker crushing a stubborn hull. Yet no sooner had the Harlingar Legion turned to hammer into the Dwarves, than rushing forth from the great iron gates behind came charging an army of Châkka, led by a Dwarf bearing a scintillant shield—a Dragonhide shield—sparkling like a shattered rainbow, and in his right he gripped a steel warhammer.
Thork had come. And with him a thousand warriors charged. And they fell upon the rear of Richter’s force; for as planned, a Harlingar brigade had fallen into the Dwarven trap, a trap laid by Châkka cunning, and now it was the Men who were caught in the jaws of a vise, caught fore and aft between harsh steel talons of the Dwarven Legion. And Vanadurin fell screaming unto their death, but so too did Châkka.
Pikes shattered. Spears splintered. Iron rang on iron, and steel on steel. Sabers rived. Axes clove. Hammers crushed muscle and bone alike. Outbound sissing quarrels flashed past inbound hissing arrows, the deadly bolts and shafts thucking into vulnerable flesh. Horses belled and lashed out with lethal hooves, smashing into the foe afoot. Steeds were hammered screaming to the ground, their riders slaughtered, the slayers in turn cut down by whistling blade.
And the earth ran red with blood.
In that initial assault, Einrich fell to a crossbow quarrel, his massive body trampled to pulp by his own charging brigade. But Aranor survived, for another crashed into the pike aimed at the King, as Flame, great Flame, red stallion of the green plains ’round Skymere, screaming in wrath, leapt above the heads of those in the fore and smashed down among the fury of the Dwarven square, trapping the Jordian Lord among his enemies. And as Aranor hacked and slashed his way toward freedom, Reynor and Ruric and a handful of others managed to drive a small wedge into the square, linking up with Aranor, the fierce unit riving with bitter blades, driving outward until at last they had escaped the rage of the Châkka, though not all won free of the perimeter, but instead fell from their saddles and into the seething wrath of the warriors about them, never to rise again.
It was all sound and fury and ringing of metal and shouts of rage and shrieks of Death. Hacking and slashing, crushing and smashing, puncturing and piercing, all was violence and confusion and a lethal churn of Man, horse, Dwarf, and cold steel.
Struggling free at last, ’mid zizzing crossbow bolts, Aranor galloped for a nearby knoll. Behind came Ruric and Reynor and others of those who had survived the square. Of a sudden, Reynor’s swift-running horse shrieked and pitched out from under him, a quarrel through its skull. Reynor crashed to the ground, barely avoiding being rolled upon by the slain steed. Dazed, the young Man floundered to his feet as Ruric, coming after, called out his name. Reynor spun about and saw the Armsmaster galloping nigh, slowing his horse and reaching out his arm, crooked at the elbow to catch the downed rider up. And as Ruric rode past, Reynor hooked his arm in Ruric’s and sprang, the Armsmaster sweeping the younger Man up and ’round, Reynor swinging astride Flint’s haunches behind the saddle. And riding double they passed beyond the range of the crossbows and up onto the hillock to join the King where they could see the chaos and violence raging below.
There was no semblance of order among the Vanadurin, though the battered Dwarven square, despite all, still held firm. Too, Richter’s force was clearly trapped, and a glittering shield could be seen flashing among the battling foe surrounding them.
“Reynor, sound the call to withdraw,” commanded Aranor, his voice bitter. And none protested his decision, for it was plain to see that the Dwarves had won this day. Reynor raised his black-oxen horn to his lips and winded the bugle—Hahn, taa-roo! Hahn, taa-roo! [Withdraw! Withdraw!] —and so the call was taken up by all those who heard its knell, Richter mounting a charge of his brigade along the edge of the square, bringing the whole of his force to bear upon the weakest seam of the enemy’s ring of steel and driving downslope toward freedom, breaking through at last to pour outward ’mid sleeting quarrels, the hammered survivors joining the others who yet lived.
And as the Harlingar retreated, whelmed and discouraged, behind they could hear the jeering of the Dwarven foe.
And in the center of the valley the brook flowed, the stream a scarlet ribbon bleeding down through the deadly vale.
“He was everywhere,” said Richter, “that Dwarf with the rainbow shield and the whelming maul . . . their mightiest warrior, I ween. Alone, he accounted for many of our slain, and twice I saw him take a direct strike upon that shimmering buckler, to no effect.”
“’Tis the Dragonhide Elgo brought,” growled Ruric.
“Dragonhide or no,’ responded Richter, “he is a nemesis, this wielder of the flashing steel hammer, this bearer of the shatterlight shield.”
“But not invincible, Richter, as you would have him be.” The speaker was Vaeran. “Nay, not invincible. And if we would take the heart out of these gold-grabbing Dwarves, then I say that we must slay him, whoever he is, as well as bring down their King.”
“Mayhap it will come to single combat: Baran and I.” With a long charred stick, Aranor stirred the fire before them
. “And as to the one who bears the shield of splintered light, mayhap he is their champion, or one of the royal Line, for I cannot imagine such a token being borne by any other.”
Aranor sat in thought for a moment. “Rach! We were such utter fools to fall into that flanking trap they set for us. And we should have known that they would have pikes awaiting us. Yet in our unmitigated arrogance, we blindly rushed in, instead of thinking.”
“We simply discovered what we should have always known, Sire,” stated Vaeran, “that the foe is cunning. But heed, when next we do battle it is we who shall emerge the victor.”
“But how do we break that square, Vaeran?” Aranor’s question was on the minds of all.
“First the crossbows and pikes, Sire,” answered Vaeran. “This I propose: that we stay just beyond the range of their quarrels and rain arrows down upon them. This should take out their own archers. Pikes, too, if our aim be true.”
Aranor growled. “Garn! But I mislike this plan, Vaeran. It suits me not to stand back and fly arrows at these graspers. Rather would I cleave straight through their heart.”
“Aye, Sire,” responded Vaeran, his sharp features highlighted in the lambency of the flames. “I too would rather cut through the gluttonous foe, yet we saw today that it could not be done.”
Grudgingly, Aranor nodded. “I suppose that once the pikes and bows are rendered useless, then we cut through that square of theirs.”
Ere Vaeran could answer, Reynor came unto the fire and stepped into the ring of light. “Sire, I have the tally.”
All fell quiet, for Reynor bore news as to the numbers wounded and killed.
“Say on,” Aranor commanded, bracing himself for the worst.
“We lost somewhat more than seven hundred, my Lord”—Reynor’s voice was grim—“and nearly three hundred are wounded such that they cannot bear arms. And, all told, just over nine hundred horses were slain, some eight hundred were killed in battle, the rest were destroyed to end their suffering.”
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 26