A stunned silence ringed the campblaze. But at last: “Adon. A thousand Men, a thousand horses.” Aranor spoke softly yet all heard him. “All because of the greed of Dwarves.”
“What of the foe, Reynor,” queried Vaeran. “How many lost on their side.”
“The healers are not yet returned from the field, Marshal Vaeran,” answered Reynor. “When they come, then shall we know.”
And out upon the battlefield, Harlingar healers and Châkka alike moved among the dead and wounded, ministering herbs and simples, binding bleeding gashes and cuts, splinting broken limbs, bearing the dead and injured from the field. At times, Vanadurin squatted but paces from Châk, each treating their own, each ignoring the other. And litters shuttled to and fro as the casualties were carried unto their respective places of refuge.
And as they worked, each noted the number of the foe that had fallen. But the Harlingar observed something else, as well: as dusk had crept upon the land, additional healers had come forth from the gates of Kachar, bearing phosphorescent lanterns emitting a soft blue-green light; yet whether these new attendants were Dwarves, they could not say, for each of these helpers were guarded by an escort of warriors, and now and then a soft keening could be heard.
The following day a truce was arranged so that each side could bury their dead:
The Harlingar placed their fallen ’neath green turves at the distant foot of the vale, but as was their custom, they mourned not, for War was upon them, and grieving would come later. Too, saddles, bridles, and the trappings of War were taken from slain horses, but the dead beasts were left to lie upon the field of their slaughter. Lastly, a waggon train bearing the wounded set out that day, faring for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond, the less wounded driving the more severely hurt, a few healers accompanying them.
And out before the iron gates of Kachar, the Châkka placed their dead upon great pyres, and all day the flame of the burning flared bright, and a dark column of smoke rose up into the sky. And again, a doleful keening could be heard after the Sun fell into the night.
On the second day of combat, the Harlingar attempted to execute the plan suggested two evenings before. Yet it was virtually ineffective, for the Dwarves had anticipated the Harlingar move, and great pavises were borne out from the gate and set before the ranks, and these ground-supported shields effectively warded the Châkka from the arrows of the Vanadurin. And Aranor gnashed his teeth as Dwarven jeers rang in the vale.
At last, again the Men of Jord mounted a charge, this time bringing the bulk of their force to bear upon the center of the fore of the square. And now the Dwarves fell back, slowly retreating unto the safety of their own gates, and every foot of ground that they yielded was costly to the Harlingar, the toll of battle high.
And when the great gates clanged to, the battle ended; and on this day it was the Harlingar who jeered at the foe, though there was not much by which to claim victory.
Again a truce was called to care for the dead. And the Harlingar buried their slain and mourned not, while the Châkka burnt theirs and wept. And it was at this time that Aranor realized what he had not known before: that the great scorched patch upon the earth nigh the head of the vale when he had first come unto Kachar had marked the place of a funeral pyre, a pyre for the slain emissaries . . . or mayhap Dwarf King Brak.
On the third day of strife, some thirty-four hundred Harlingar took to the field against nearly twenty-one hundred Châkka, facing off against one another in a battle they would never fight.
CHAPTER 25
A Dragon Wakes
Early Summer, 3E1602
[This Year]
When at long last Black Kalgalath awakened from his fiery dreams, he found himself in his familiar lair. Dark basalt surrounded the great Wyrm: hot, some would say, but not a Fire-drake. Even so, the stone was warm to the touch, the air tinged with brimstone, for Kalgalath’s lair rested within the slopes of an aeons-dead firemountain. And far below churned the molten stone of a great burning caldera, its heat seeping up through the cracks raddling the fettering base of the towering rock cone.
Yet none of this occupied Black Kalgalath’s attention, for his first thought upon awakening was, Sleeth is dead.
The Dragon stirred, uncoiling his great bulk, gathering his mighty legs beneath him, and then he slid forward, ponderously slithering through the gaping crevices that shattered through the ebon stone. Up through the labyrinth he thrust, coming at last to the exit from his lair upon the outer mountain slopes.
He cast his senses forth, to discover that he was alone, and pressed forward into the light of the day, unfearful of the Sun, for Kalgalath was a Fire-drake, and Adon’s Ban held no sway o’er him. And as the great Dragon fetched out upon the high stone ledge, he shone ebon as the night, for he was scaled black—jet, some would say.
All about, the snow-clad peaks of the Grimwall Mountains burst upward, the crests still in winter’s icy grip, though late spring trod the plains below. The morning Sun cast glancing light among the crags, and high overhead, wisps of sulfurous vapor streamed over the lip of the hollowed cavity that gouged down into the peak, a great basalt cauldron forming the roof of Kalgalath’s lair within the dead firemountain.
The Drake flared his mighty pinions into the chill air, stretching them to the fullest and then folding them partway back as he slithered to the lip of the foreledge and stopped. Before him, a sheer wall plunged down the dark face of the mountain, driving into rocky slopes far below. Behind him, stone rose up toward the rim high above. Yet Kalgalath did not stop to admire the grandeur all about him; his mind was occupied with other thoughts.
Great muscles rippled and bunched, and with a roar that crashed over and again among the frozen crags and caused snow and rocks to avalanche down into the depths below, Black Kalgalath leapt into the air, immense leathery wings beating, driving him upward into the cerulean sky.
And when he was high above the clawing Grimwall, west he turned, west, vast dark pinions hammering, a massive wicked blackness striking toward the heart of Jord.
CHAPTER 26
The Long Trek East
Mid and Late Fall, 3E1602
[The Present]
“Oh!” Elyn exclaimed softly, and Thork turned, his “eyes following her gaze back across the river into Wolfwood. The Dwarf looked yet saw nought but trees with leaves fluttering in the gentle zephyr, for the Wolfmage and Draega were gone. Turning back to the Warrior Maid, Thork cocked an eye. “I thought I saw . . .” she began, then fell into a silence.
They rode easterly league upon league, neither saying a word, the silence a chill uncomfortable wall between them. Even when they stopped to eat and feed the steeds and to rest and take care of other needs, still they spoke in but monosyllables. Each was still hurt, feeling both as betrayed and as betrayer, for it was but this morning that each had discovered that the other was after the Kammerling—the Rage Hammer, Adon’s Hammer—for no other weapon would accomplish that which must be done. And both knew that when this necessary—this vital—mission was accomplished, such a weapon could then be used in the struggle between their two Folk. And so, they regretted ever having met one another, no matter what they had come to feel, and now wanted only to be alone. Yet they also had been told by the Wolfmage that neither one alone could hope to succeed in securing this token of power, for destiny and prophecy ruled o’er talismans such as these, and the prophecy concerning the Kammerling told that two were needed—One to hide, One to guide—and both Elyn and Thork had a role to play, in spite of being enemies, in spite of . . . other things. And so, in a silence stretched taut between them, easterly rode the twain, for easterly lay their goal.
All day they rode thus, and when evening began to fall they encamped in pines alongside a burbling stream dashing out into the open wold. Thork made a small fire, while Elyn rubbed down both Wind and Digger, using handfuls of long grass pulled from the slopes, and then curried both beasts.
As the two warriors sat and ate jerky, the Sun s
ank below the horizon and darkness came creeping upon the land. Finishing his meal, Thork got to his feet and washed his hands in the stream and turned to his weaponry. He cocked his crossbow and laid in a quarrel, and set his axe at hand, and lay his cloth-covered shield and metal warhammer within easy reach. Then, turning to Elyn, at last he broke the silence: “Now we shall see if that silver nugget truly wards us, for the dark is full upon us, and if Andrak sends evil after, then it will not be long ere we will know it.”
Elyn, too, prepared for combat, spear, bow and arrow, saber, and long-knife at hand, yet she seemed preoccupied all the while. And she stood across the fire from him and at last she spoke her mind: “Thork, secrets lie between us, and bar the way before us. Now is the time to lay them bare if we are to go onward together as the Wolfmage has said we must.
“We have fought together side by side against the forces of darkness, and at times back to back. We have fought on even when it seemed that there was no hope of surviving. I have taken wounds meant for you, and you have taken mine. A better comrade I could not ask for.
“I know that a common foe has thrown us together, regardless of our own choosings, yet you go against all that I had thought of your kind, and I do not see how this can be.
“These past weeks I have wondered how you could be such as you are: honorable, steadfast, worthy.” Elyn paused, looking not at Thork, but studying her hands instead. When she continued, her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “And I wonder at your care for me, a companion—nay! an enemy—met upon the road. For there is this thing that lies between us: our Folk war with one another.
“When I set out upon this quest, I thought to turn the Kammerling against your kind in the end. And you have admitted as much to me. Yet I cannot partake in a mission where the thing I seek will be, might be, turned against me and mine.” Now Elyn’s voice was filled with emotion, with hurt, with the thoughts of things remembered. “Already have we, have I, been greatly wronged by your Folk, and I would not have that happen again.
“Yet my destiny seems somehow bound up in yours.
“And now we go into a danger beyond reckoning, and all doubt must be expelled ere we come to the final testing.
“Ere now I have deliberately hidden my questions, treading on nought but safe ground. But the time has come when we must say what is true and what is not, for I can have it no other way.”
She glanced at Thork for the first time since beginning, yet now it was he who could not meet her gaze, and instead stood looking down at the fire. Even so, he nodded, twice—short, jerky movements.
“Who are you?” Elyn’s voice quavered, verging upon tears, knowing that if he answered, there would be no turning back. Yet there was nothing that could have prepared her for his response.
Looking her directly in the eye, Thork answered, his words slow and measured, ringing like knells of doom upon a funeral bell: “I am Thork, son of Brak, brother of Baran, DelfLord of Kachar.”
With each word, Elyn listened in growing horror, stunned, and when the last word came, without warning she hurled herself at him, fists flailing, crying, “Murderers! Killers! You slew my brother! You slew my brother! You slew my twin!”
And her clenched hands struck Thork in rage, but he did little to protect himself, fending with his forearms, turning his face to one side. Yet at last he clutched her unto himself, hugging her tightly. And for a moment she struggled, but then she locked her own arms about him and for the second time in her life she wept as would a lost child, all the fury gone from her, nought but desolation left within.
And Thork held her and comforted her even though he now knew who she was: Elyn, daughter of Aranor, King of Jord, sister to Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom, Brak’s Slayer, Thief. And a great look of anguish swept over Thork’s face.
The next day they continued their easterly ride, again saying little, for each had much to ponder. Some two hours after setting out, at their second rest stop of the morning, Elyn at last broke the silence between them, noting a red hawk circling in the high blue sky. “Redwing,” she muttered, following its flight.
“Eh?” grunted Thork, peering ’round.
“I said Redwing.” Elyn pointed, Thork’s gaze following her outstretched arm. “It is like my hawk, Redwing, raised from a chick.”
They stood and watched the hunting pattern of the raptor, and every now and again the Sun caught upon the outstretched wings just so, and burnished copper flashed in the sky. “So like your red tresses, Princess,” said Thork quietly, not realizing that he spoke aloud, until—
“My tresses?” Elyn turned her eyes toward the Dwarf, but his gaze refused to meet hers.
“The soaring hawk, Lady,” Thork said at last. “She gleams as would red gold, just as does your hair. A fitting symbol of your kinship, a bond between this red huntress of the skies and this red huntress of the plains.”
Elyn turned her face away, her heart hammering for no reason. And the red hawk circled higher and higher, until it was but a speck in the sky, flashing copper now and again.
Onward they rode, stopping at last for a noon meal alongside a clear stream running out into a greensward. As Thork prepared a small fire, Elyn took up her sling and trod quietly into a swale, returning shortly with but a single rabbit at her belt. “Sparse fare, Thork,” she grumbled. “Not much game hereabout, I ween.”
“Someday, Lady, you must teach me the manner of that rockthrower of yours,” said Thork, reaching out and taking the coney from her, pulling a dagger from his boot. Thork stepped to one side and began to dress out the game, preparing it for the spit.
“Not rocks, Thork,” responded Elyn, “though they’ll do in a pinch.” She fumbled at the pouch upon her belt and withdrew a small lead ball. “Instead, these, Warrior: sling bullets.”
Thork set the rabbit above the fire and rinsed his bloodied hands in the stream. Then he reached out and took the metal shot from her, turning it over and again in his fingers. “Chod,” he said. “We call this grey metal, chod. It is common, easily smeltered, easily fashioned. Yet there is something about the working of chod that is dangerous. Like a slow poison. For the most part, we Châkka leave it be.” Thork handed the bullet back to Elyn. “Steel would be better.”
As the steeds munched upon grain, Elyn and Thork sat and watched the rabbit cook, each taking turns at rotating the spit above the flames. “It seems the token the Wolfmage gave us provided protection from Andrak and his minions,” remarked Elyn, breaking the silence. “At least nothing came upon us in the dark. Nothing that is except memories . . . and dreams.”
Thork did not reply, instead turning the spit again.
Elyn fingered the token on the thong about her neck. “You know of metals, Thork. What be this alloy?”
Thork turned to look, then moved closer, his eyes widening in amaze. “Starsilver! This be starsilver.” Reverently he reached out and touched the nugget. “You would call it silveron, yet it is none other than the special metal placed within Mithgar by Adon. No wonder it holds magic.”
“Is it as rare as I’ve heard?” Elyn stretched the thong to its limit, looking upon the nugget with new eyes. “I thought it common silver, but now I see it is not.”
“Aye, rare and priceless,” answered Thork. “Only in a few places within Mithgar is it known to exist, and every grain is carefully sought out, for it is precious.”
Elyn cocked her head to one side, and quicksilver swift changed the subject. “Thork, what did the Wolfmage mean when he said that being a Châk signifies that you cannot lose your footsteps?”
Thork rocked back on his heels and peered intently into the fire, and for long moments Elyn thought that he would not answer. But then, as if he had made up his mind about some aspect of their relationship, he at last spoke. “We Châkka have a special gift given to us by Adon: wherever we have stepped, wherever we have travelled by land, be it on foot or astride a pony or within a waggon or by other means, the track we have fared upon comes alive within us, and we can u
nerringly retrace our steps. There is an eld Châk saying: ‘I may not know where I am going, but I always know where I have been.’ And it is true, for easily can we step again a path trod, be it pitch black, be we blindfolded, forward or reverse, it matters not, for still can we trace out a route once travelled. Without this gift, we could not live in the labyrinths below the ground.” Without further word, Thork pulled the rabbit from above the fire and split it in two, giving over one half to Elyn.
They rode through the rest of the day, settling into another coppice-sheltered campsite when evening drew nigh. As darkness fell and Elyn spread her bedroll ere turning in, she looked across the fire at her comrade. “Thork, when I attacked you yesternight, it was not you I was assailing: instead it was your Lineage. You see, I loved my brother very much.”
A long silence stretched between them, broken by the Dwarf at last: “As I loved my sire.” With these words, Thork cast his hood over his head and stepped into the shadows beyond the reach of the firelight.
Tears sprang into Elyn’s eyes, yet whether they were for herself or for Thork, she could not say.
All the next day they rode in silence, each wrapped in thoughts unspoken. A covering of clouds crept across the sky, and the wind grew chill, presaging the winter to come, and the Châk Prince and Human Princess huddled in their cloaks and moved across the land. By nightfall a cold rain fell from above, and the twain spent a miserable night under a leaking lean-to hastily constructed by Thork from boughs of whin and pine.
Sometime in the night the frigid drizzle ceased, and next morn as the Sun broke over the horizon, the two ate in silence. The dawn air was cold and damp and uncomfortable, and the chill seemed to seep into the very bones. Groaning, Elyn got to her feet. “Ah, me, but what I wouldn’t give for a good cup of hot tea.”
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 27