—RRRRAAAWWWW! A deafening roar shook the vale and massive leathery wings whelmed blasts of wind downward, and flame spewed upon the delvers at the face of the stone heap as Black Kalgalath thundered down through the dawn and fell upon the Châkka.
And young Dorni, his eardrums ruptured, his nostrils bleeding, turned and fled through the secret door and into Kachar, the Minemaster’s message to DelfLord Baran utterly forgotten.
Baran sat brooding upon his throne, Thork at his side. Before the dais stood Bolk, his eyes smoldering. “These sneering Riders are at it again, DelfLord: name-calling, accusing.”
Thork clenched a fist, hammering it into open palm. “Kruk!” The oath rang upon the stone of the chamber. “Did I not say that we had clutched a serpent to our bosom?”
“Think you that I know not the viperous nature of these braggarts?” gritted Baran. “Did I not lead the negotiating team into their deceitful midst? Am I not the lone survivor of their treachery?
“Even so, much as you or I or Captain Bolk or any mislike it, they are here under our protection: they asked for sanctuary, and by Elwydd, I gave it!”
“Sanctuary or no,” responded Bolk, “I cannot pledge that my warriors will not take matters into their own hands, for even sanctuary itself cannot revoke an insult to Châkka honor. Under our protection, aye, that they are, but that does not set them free from an honorable code of conduct.”
“Bolk—” seethed Baran, crashing the butt of a fist against the arm of the chair.
Baran’s words remained unvoiced, for in that moment there came a commotion from the outer hall, and shouting sounded, muffled by the chamber door: “Black Kalgalath, my Lord!” The door slammed open, and a sandy-haired Dwarf burst in. “DelfLord Baran, Black Kalgalath is come upon us, and he slays Châkka without!”
A healer was called as Dorni told his tale, the young Châk snuffling blood, his voice overloud, eardrums bursted by the Drake’s awful roar. Scouts were dispatched, Thork among them, to look upon the vale, to confirm the Dragon’s whereabouts, to see whether any Châkka had survived. They returned grim-faced, reporting that Black Kalgalath strutted in the valley, or winged upward to sit upon nearby peaks, roaring thunderous challenges; and of Dokan’s party, none lived.
And even as this shattering account came unto the DelfLord, another messenger stepped into the throne room, bearing word that a bloody four-handed duel had been fought between Riders and Châkka warriors, and that two Men and a Châk were now dead, and a second Châk lay severely wounded and was not expected to live.
Scowling, Aranor and Gannor stalked into the throne room, taking up seats placed there for them. Ruric had been summoned as well, and he took up a stance behind the Vanadurin King, his own face impassive. Baran sat upon the throne, the DelfLord’s visage grim, while Thork stood at Baran’s side. Except for these five, the chamber was empty.
Baran was first to speak: “King Aranor, I have granted you and your Men sanctuary, yet you repay me by murdering Châkka warriors—”
“Murder?” burst out Gannor, his face dark with anger. “That’s a Dwarven lie!”
Thork’s hand jumped to his axe, and he stepped forward, flushing scarlet with wrath.
Gannor leapt to his feet, drawing his saber, and this in turn brought Aranor and Baran to their feet, each reaching for their weapons.
Instantly, Ruric stepped between, thrusting out his empty hands as if to press ’gainst both onslaughts. “By Adon,” he cried, “would ye start a bloodbath?”
Shaking with rage, Baran managed to step hindward, reaching out and drawing Thork with him.
Reluctantly, Aranor sat down, and at last, Gannor, too, flung himself into his own seat.
But Ruric remained standing between. “My Lords, I would speak.” At an angry nod from Aranor, Ruric continued: “Though I do ha’e an opinion, I be not here to lay blame, and so my thoughts on this matter will remain unvoiced. Yet heed! This duel ha’ its roots in both sides, and was driven by pride and by insulted honor. By our own law, King Aranor, an affair of honor cannot be meddled wi—”
“Not true, Armsmaster,” interrupted the Vanadurin King. “A stay of combat can be ordered until the facts are known by a court of peers.”
“Aye, Lord,” responded Ruric, “that be true. Yet should the facts bear out that honor be breached, then satisfaction be due.”
In a seeming shift of focus, Ruric turned to DelfLord Baran. “I would ask our host what be the way o’ the Dwarves in matters of honor.”
Gannor snorted and muttered under his breath, “Dwarven honor, pah!”
Again Thork’s face flushed in anger, and the knuckles of the hand griping his axe grew white. Yet he held himself in check and spat out an answer: “When it comes to honor, none stand higher than the Châkka.”
“What be your point, Man Ruric?” asked Baran.
“Just this, DelfLord,” responded the Armsmaster. “Sanctuary or no, for the most part our laws prevent us from interfering wi’ the honor of individuals. All that any may plea for be the rule o’ reason, which at times calls for judicious self-control on the part o’ the injured party. And if yer laws be the same, should it come down to an affair o’ honor, if the insult be too great for the individual to bear, then duels will be fought, and there will be bloodshed ’twixt our two Folk.”
Baran sat brooding for a moment. “Then, Man Ruric, duels will be fought, for our laws in this matter are much the same as yours, and Châkka honor, too, must be preserved.”
Aranor cleared his throat. “I suggest, DelfLord, that we Vanadurin go forth from this stone hole as soon as may be, as soon as Black Kalgalath no longer raids in this vicinity, for as long as the Drake harasses this region, we will be your unwilling guests.”
After the Men had departed, Thork turned to Baran. “Brother, I note that you did not tell the Riders that Black Kalgalath raided this very dawn, this time slaying Châkka.”
“Nay, Thork, I did not,” answered the DelfLord. “I know not whether such news can be used by the looting thieves to our disadvantage. Until I know that, I will not speak of it to them.”
The next day, as reported by Dwarven scouts standing within the secret portal, again Black Kalgalath rampaged within the vale, shouting great brazen roars from atop nearby peaks, rending soil from the floor of the valley, tossing aside mutilated corpses, sending the flocks of scavenger birds fleeing in panic. At last, the Drake took to wing, yet Baran ordered that no one venture outside to retrieve the slain Châkka, for none knew whether Black Kalgalath had truly departed.
And again the blood of outraged honor was spilled within the Dwarvenholt, as duels were fought between Dwarves and Men. This time eight died: five Vanadurin and three Châkka.
On the following day a Council of Chief Captains was called to consider these twin dilemmas: a Dragon without, and Men within.
When all had gathered, Baran stood. “We are met here to consider our course of action. Black Kalgalath has chosen to fall upon this Châkkaholt—why? I cannot say. Our main gate lies buried under countless tons of stone. Yet, while the Drake raids, we cannot uncover it.
“Too, because of the Dragon, I have granted sanctuary to the Riders—”
“And they repay our generosity by slaying our kindred!” shouted Bolk, slamming his fist to the table, his face red with fury. An angry rumble of agreement rose up from the assembled Captains. “By Adon, I said that no good would come of letting a pack of thieves—”
“Silence!” roared Baran, his own face dark with rage. “What is done, is done. I want no rehash of arguments made days agone.”
Quiet fell within the chamber, though it was plain to see that Bolk was about to choke upon ire, and sullen anger smoldered within the eyes of other Châkka as well.
“Let not these . . . Men . . . lead us into pointless quarrels,” growled Baran, “for we are not here to squabble among ourselves. Instead we gather to resolve problems, not to create new ones, nor to revive old ones.” Baran’s eye swept across the ass
embly, and many Captains looked down in shame rather than to meet the gaze of their DelfLord.
“As I was saying,” continued Baran, his voice level, “we are met to consider what to do about the buried gate, about Black Kalgalath, and about the Men. I seek your advice.”
After a short silence, a grey-haired Châk stood and was recognized. It was Fendor Stonelegs, Masterdelver. “My Lord, I would consider what to do about the Men. It is plain to see that Honor demands that they remain in our sanctuary for as long as the Drake raids. Only a great wrongdoing upon their part would lead to us casting them out in the face of Black Kalgalath, and these duels are private affairs, and not to be meddled with.
“Even so, should we wish to eject the Riders, we could lead them to the hidden north gate and out”—an uneasy stir ran ’round the table—“but that would reveal a secret long held, one better kept unto ourselves. Yet heed, the same is true of the east, west, and south gates . . . true of any gate but the main one.
“This then is my proposal: that we drive side passages at the main gate, postern passages, as it were. This will take some time to accomplish, and mayhap Black Kalgalath will lose interest and abandon these raids ere we are finished. But raids or not, postern passages will allow us to begin the task of digging out the main gate, for the side tunnels will allow us access whereby we may clear the rubble, yet will provide nearby escape routes should the Drake return.
“When we begin the work outside, we must be ever vigilant, posting lookouts every moment to watch for Kalgalath.
“Even before then, we need a watch posted, to note when the Drake tires of this sport of his. For when it is determined that the Drake is gone for good, we can expel these Riders from our holt, through the main gate if it is cleared by then, through the side passages if not, and they will discover nought of our secret portals.”
Fendor sat down among an approving murmur, for many found his plan sound. Of the assembled Captains, only Bolk questioned the scheme, turning to Baran: “In the meantime, while we delve stone, these thieves will continue to provoke quarrels. How do you propose to handle that, my Lord?”
Baran ground his teeth in frustration. “Bolk—”
“My Lord”—a dark-haired Châk in his early years interrupted—“all know that we will throw the Riders out when the Dragon no longer raids. All know that we will resume the War when the Men are ejected. All know that we will recover our stolen treasure from these looters. And all know that we will not rest until vengeance is gained for our slain. It is in this time of revenge that we will settle all ills between us and these Men.”
As the speaker, Dalek Ironhand, resumed his seat, Bolk again spoke up, his voice verging upon a sneer: “Hah! Mayhap we should let each Captain call together the Châkka within his command, and say unto them that these days are coming. Mayhap they will lay their quarrels aside, staying their hand until the time of revenge. To this, I say nay! For vengeance delayed is vengeance denied.”
At Bolk’s words, Captains shifted uneasily within their chairs, for indeed most did believe that vengeance delayed was vengeance denied, and none would stay the hand of one whose honor had been impugned.
Dalek began to rise, his face darkening, but Thork’s words intervened: “Did we not agree days ago to temporarily set aside our grievances when sanctuary was asked and given? Aye, that we did, for the honor of the Nation comes first.”
“Aye,” responded Bolk, “we did accept the Men under those terms—terms not to my liking, I might add. Yet the Riders do not honor that agreement, for they heap insults upon our heads, calling us cowards and murderers and gold-grabbing Dwarves. I say that we take the Host down into the holt and exterminate these vipers once and for all!”
Bolk’s words brought on an uproar of shouts and curses, Captains vying to have a say. Once again, Baran shouted for silence, resorting at last to slamming the flat of his axe Blang! to the stone of the table. And when quiet fell at last, Baran glared at all the gathered Châkka, blood in his eye, no one saying aught. Finally, Baran spoke, his voice low, gritty: “We are not rabble, here. Let not these Riders make us so.”
A ginger-haired Châk, Galt, Masterdriller, stood and was recognized. “Captain Bolk, that your brother’s son was slain by these Riders, we all know; yet all of us have lost kith in this struggle. And, aye, we all know that personal honor and family honor must be preserved. Yet, as Prince Thork has pointed out, we also know that the honor of the Nation stands above all. And it be likely that continued individual strife with Men in the halls of Kachar will lead to full-fledged warfare in these very same halls, in which case, Châkia and young will be at risk. Honor demands that we not put the future of our Realm in jeopardy needlessly. Insults these Riders may heap upon us, yet heed! Captain Ironhand’s words ring true. In the long run, we will prevail.
“Captain Bolk, mayhap you did not hear the DelfLord’s words; he said that we are here to resolve problems, not to create them. Captain Ironhand has pointed out facts, and we can indeed bring them to the attention of our warriors, noting the risk, noting that these Riders will continue to cast insults, yet noting that the honor of the Nation stands above all. In the end, unless decreed otherwise by the DelfLord, it is each Châk who must choose whether to stay his hand. If not, then so be it; if so, then so be that as well.”
Dalek again spoke: “It is as Galt says: DelfLord Baran must decide this issue. None else can.”
Again silence reigned, and all eyes turned unto Baran, the quiet at last to be broken by his words: “The honor of the Nation comes before all. Each Captain shall gather his warriors and tell them what has passed here in this Council. Remind them that the Realm comes first. Note that full combat within these halls would put the Châkia and the young in jeopardy. Tell them to put a rein upon their tempers, to ignore the gibes of the Riders, for vengeance will surely be ours in the long run. Yet, in extreme cases, let their hearts as well as their heads give guidance, for we must draw the line somewhere.”
Baran fell silent, and saw that many of the Captains reflected deeply upon his words, nodding in agreement, while others, notably Bolk, sat with stubborn resolve upon their faces, anger glaring from their eyes at the thought of these robbers jeering at them.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Thork turned to Baran. “My Lord, I deem that the Dragon be at the root of our plight. Without the Drake we would be rid of the Men, we would be rid of duels, we could resume our War, defeat these thieves, recover our stolen treasure, and claim bloodgield for those Châkka wrongfully slain in this strife caused by the foe’s plundering ways. Hence, I would ask that we now consider what may be done to rid ourselves of Black Kalgalath.”
A notable air of relief stirred through the Council; here was a problem straight and true, one where the finer edges and points of honor were not at issue, one where the goal seemed plain, though the manner of achieving it was not. Baran turned to his Captains. “I deem that Prince Thork has the right of it: that indeed Black Kalgalath be at the root of our plight. What know we of Dragons in general, and of this Drake in particular?”
Silence stretched long and thin within the chamber, and at last snapped as silver-haired Kalor Silverhand, Chief Loremaster, slowly climbed to his feet and cleared his throat. “My Lord, there be all manner of legends concerning Drakes: that their sight be true in dark as well as light, and through illusion as well as reality; that their eyes steal will; that they speak all tongues; that they mate with Madûks in the great Maelstrom; that they are shape changers; spell casters; and other such notions.
“And there are things that seem to be more than mere legend and rumor, though proof is yet lacking; most notably, that Drakes can sense all within their domain. Mayhap this be true. Mayhap it was this power of theirs that led to the downfall of those Châkka who attempted to regain Blackstone from Sleeth a millennium agone, though how Foul Elgo and his looters defied this very same power, I cannot say.
“Those be the legends and rumors, but what be the facts? Well, this
we can say with certainty: that Drakes are nigh indestructible and have strength beyond bearing; the length of their lives has not been measured by mortals; they sleep a thousand years, and raid two thousand more ere sleeping again; they spew fire, or if not fire then a dire spume that eats rock and flesh alike; they crave treasure; they dwell in remote fastnesses.
“The Fire-drake Black Kalgalath is said to dwell in Dragonslair, the dead firemountain to the east along the Grimwall. He is said to be the greatest Drake living. And lastly, lore has it that only the Kammerling can destroy the greatest Dragon of all.”
“Master Kalor,” asked Thork, “about this Kammerling: why is it also called the Rage Hammer?”
Kalor stroked his silver beard. “That be another legend, Prince Thork: it is said that only a rage beyond bearing will bring the Kammerling to its full potency . . . that is why it is named the Rage Hammer.
“There is this, too, about Adon’s Hammer: lore would have it that there be a ‘doom’ on the wielder of the hammer, a prophecy: No matter whether for good or for ill, tragedy will surely come to him who wields the Kammerling.
“And it is also told that the Rage Hammer will be wielded by one who has lost a loved one.”
“That could be any one of us here,” mused Thork, “yet I deem that the death of my sire seems to fit this prophecy. Master Kalor, could it be Brak’s death spoken of in the words of lore?”
“Aye, that would fit,” answered the eld Châk, “though others would fit as well.”
“Be there aught else of these legends?” asked Baran.
“Only this, DelfLord,” responded Kalor. “It be told that Black Kalgalath cannot be slain by the hand of Man.”
Thork held up his own gnarled fingers, looking at them in the blue-green lantern light. “This be not the hand of a Man.”
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 37