Bolk’s deep voice sounded across the table. “I say that we get this Rage Hammer and use it not only upon Black Kalgalath, but also to whelm these Riders.”
Bolk’s proposition met with scattered shouts of agreement.
“Mayhap, Bolk,” responded Baran, “for it would be a mighty token of power to bear into any battle. But ere we can swing it in battle against the Riders, first we must obtain the thing. Master Kalor, where be this Hammer of Adon?”
“That I know not, DelfLord,” responded Kalor, “for there be many rumors as to its whereabouts. Yet among the Loremasters it be said that the Kammerling lies in the Land of Xian, where the Wizards dwell. I would look for it in Black Mountain, for that be the holt of the Mages. Yet, where be Black Mountain, I cannot say, other than far to the east in distant Xian.”
His knowledge spent, Loremaster Kalor resumed his seat. Long moments passed ere anyone said aught, but at last Baran spoke: “Let us now consider how we might obtain this weapon, for as has been pointed out, not only will it rid us of Black Kalgalath, it also can be used in the War with the Riders.”
“My Lord Baran”—Thork’s voice was quiet, yet all heard him—“I think that just one Châk must go on this perilous mission, and these be my reasons: First, we are not certain that the Kammerling even exists, and so to send a large or even a small band on this quest will deplete our much-needed forces here. Second, Black Kalgalath may indeed have the power to sense those nigh in his presence, hence may be able to detect a party of Châkka and destroy them; yet a lone Châk might be able to slip through, if for no other reason than Kalgalath may not deign to stoop to slay a single Châk. Third, whoever we send must be a warrior who wields a hammer with skill, for we know not what Adon’s Hammer be like, and the warrior’s skill might be needed to heft, to bear, and, aye, even to use the Kammerling. Fourth, this warrior must be able to fend for himself in the wilds as well as within civilization.
“Baran DelfLord, I propose that I be that warrior who goes on the Quest of Black Mountain.”
Amid a murmur of approval, Thork sat down.
Long into the night went the debate upon the best way to obtain the Kammerling, but in the end it was Thork’s plan that was accepted, for all knew that the Prince was a champion without peer, and none were mightier with a hammer than he. Too, he had all the skills needed to survive such a quest, and even DelfLord Baran, who was loath for Thork to go, admitted that he was best suited for this mission.
And so it was that Thork, Son of Brak, Prince of Kachar, was chosen to set forth alone upon a quest to find Black Mountain to obtain the Kammerling.
Yet, while this Council of Chief Captains was taking place, down within the bowels of Kachar another council was held: the two surviving Reachmarshals of Jord, Gannor and Vaeran, and Marshal Boer, along with Armsmaster Ruric and Captain Reynor, convened with the King to speak upon the straits they had come to; and their words were spoken in Valur, the ancient War-tongue of the Harlingar, so that if any words were overheard by hostile ears, they would not be understood.
“Aye, my Lord, that’s the gist of it,” reported Vaeran. “The horse skitted, the Dwarf cried out, there came a cat-call from a Harlingar, it led to words about cowardice and thievery, and next there was the duel.”
“And five Vanadurin lay dead when it was done.” Aranor’s voice was filled with suppressed ire.
“It be these whey-faced, gold-grubbing cowards who are at fault, Lord,” spat Reynor. “They slammed the gate upon our warriors and because of that—”
“By damn, Captain,” erupted Aranor, “the moment Kalgalath struck the ground it was too late for them! Even I realize that now. Had the roles been reversed, we would have done the same.”
Seething, Reynor clamped his lips together, yet it was plain to all that the Captain did not yet accept the reality of Aranor’s words.
“My Lord,” spoke up Marshal Boer, “duels with these Dwarves be not at issue here. The fact is that our latest tally shows that less than eleven hundred Harlingar remain, and only nine hundred horses are stabled within, and we are trapped in a black hole with our enemies teeming all about us.” Boer’s eyes took on a steely glint in the blue-green lantern light. “That be our true concern, King Aranor: not duels with these gold-grasping rock dwellers, but the fact that we are trapped and surrounded and outnumbered.”
“Aye, Marshall Boer,” replied Aranor. “Yet think you not that these gluttons cannot count as well as we. They would welcome a fight, for now they have the upper hand: they outnumber us; we are upon their home ground and know not the byways through this labyrinth of theirs, nor the path to freedom; we know not where the food is stored, nor grain for the steeds, nor where a supply of drinkable water lies. And do not forget—even should we win to freedom, there be a Dragon awaiting us out there.”
“Think you that they would use these duels to begin combat within their own holt, Lord?” Boer’s question fell into the still air.
“Aye, Boer, they might,” replied Aranor.
“Then, my King,” asked Gannor, “what would you have us do? They call us thieves and looters. They say that we are without honor. Would you have us accept these gibes? Would you have us take on the mantle of that which they name us? Would you have us be without honor?”
Aranor’s face flushed scarlet. “By damn, Gannor—”
“My Lord,” interrupted Armsmaster Ruric, “the quarrel be not here among us. Instead, it lies ’tween Vanadurin and Dwarves.”
Slowly Aranor’s face lost its anger. “You are right, Armsmaster. You are right. It be this unacceptable plight we are in that sets us all on edge. Let us not quarrel ’mongst ourselves. Instead, I would have us entertain strategies that will negate the advantage that the Dwarves have upon us.
“And, Hrosmarshal Gannor, Captain Reynor, let us also reason how we might negate the strategy of the foe, assuming that he wishes to catch us in a War within this maze of his where he has the whip hand. Clearly, forbearance is called for. We must cool down the hot blood of our warriors. Even so, I would not have us take on the mantle cast by the foe. Hence, at the same time, we must decide how to deal with that issue, with insults and gibes, with taunts and challenges, for we must draw the line somewhere.”
And so the Vanadurin huddled ’round the table and spoke long into the night, seeking strategems that would nullify the foe’s clear edge.
Thork set forth the following morn, after Black Kalgalath’s dawntime beleaguerment. With pony and supplies and travelling weaponry, Thork fared down the long rock-walled tunnel to the distant eastern exit, secret to all but the Châkka of Kachar. Baran went to the hidden portal with his brother, but what they said to one another is not recorded. All that is known is that Thork stepped out into the eastern light and mounted up onto his steed and set forth, riding downslope through the ashes of the Silverwood. And when he came to the bottom of the slope and reined Digger to a halt and looked back, Baran was gone into the Mountain once more. And so Thork clicked his tongue and urged the pony forward, travelling toward the morning Sun, riding in the wake of a distant east-bound Dragon.
And when Kalgalath winged west the morning after, the Prince was by then some thirty miles gone.
Five more days did Thork see Kalgalath winging to harass Kachar, flying toward the Châkkaholt in the dawn, and returning eastward in early morn. But on the sixth day and thereafter, he saw the Drake no more.
Day after day, easterly he fared, quartering with farmers and hunters, staying in occasional villages, living off the land when necessary: foraging, hunting with crossbow, trapping with snare, fishing. And always, whenever chance afforded, Thork would replenish his supplies from the folk he met and ask the way to Xian, receiving little more than vague gestures eastward.
Leagues passed beneath Digger’s hooves: grassy plains for the most part, with an occasional thicket moving slowly up over the eastern horizon to eventually disappear in the west; too, at times there were uplands, hills, woodlands, rivers, and streams
standing across the way.
Slowly summer marched across the land and Thork and Digger did likewise, and the days grew long while the nights became short. Yet always the goal of Black Mountain seemed no nearer than it was the day previous. Yet the Prince and the pony fared on.
And at last there came a night when Thork camped upon the edge of the Khalian Mire, the easternmost place noted upon the maps within Kachar, maps studied by Thork ere he set forth. About the Mire, nothing was noted, except a cryptic reference to hidden danger or bogs, it was uncertain which. Thork had noted that the Mire lay along the planned route, and it was shorter across than it was around. And as he set up camp that evening, caring for Digger, seeing to his own needs, Thork speculated upon the fact that after the morrow, after he had passed beyond the swamp, he would be moving through territory unmapped by the folk of Kachar, out into the unknown, out where there be nought but white space upon the charts.
And as he settled down for the evening, in the distance to the south, perhaps a league or so away, Thork could see the flicker of a distant campfire, and he wondered what could bring another traveller unto fringes of this great bogland.
The next morning Thork rode Digger in among the dark, twisted trees thrusting up through an oozing mist seeping over the slime-laden muck squishing underfoot. Grey clinging moss hung downward from dead limbs, thick tendrils brushing across Thork’s face, clutching at his eyes and mouth and nose as if to smother him. Green-scummed water swirled with unseen shapes, and snakes with dead black eyes and flicking tongues slithered along rotted logs and among clotted reeds clumped in stagnant pools. Things plopped unseen into the water, and great clouds of gnats and mosquitoes and biting flies swarmed over Châk and pony alike, and swearing and slapping, Thork dismounted and smeared jinsoil over his hands and face, and upon Digger as well.
Through a tortuous entanglement of moss and trees, reeds and water, mire and land, rode Thork; it was as if he were caught in a labyrinth: forward he would move, only to have to backtrack, seeming always to ride into impassable dead ends and traps. And the very land sucked at Digger’s hooves, clutching, grasping, reluctantly yielding as the pony withdrew each foot—ssluk!—from the grasp of the morass, the mud slurking as if in protest. Through leech-laden scummy water they passed, emerging with Digger’s legs coated with the hideous parasites, creatures driven by gluttonous lust, mouthing blindly, sucking, swelling with blood. And Thork would dismount and scrape the slimy bloated bodies from Digger’s shanks, treating the oozing wounds left behind.
The Sun rode up and over, the sweltering swamp belching and heaving with gases of rot. Air became thick and hard to breathe, and a stillness descended as if nothing were alive but Thork and Digger and the cloud of buzzing insects swarming about them.
Slowly the Sun sank, and dusk drew nigh, and with it came a return of sound from the dwellers of the mire: peeping and breeking and brawking as well as slitherings and ploppings and splashings of unseen creatures, of hidden movement.
Thork did not know how far he was from the edge of the Khalian Mire, but he did know that he could not spend the night within its clutches. And now the Sun fell unto the horizon, and began to sink below. Long shadows seeped among the trees and moss. Reeds fell into shadow.
And without warning, Digger screamed and bolted, and Thork could not stay the pony’s panic, for it was as if the little steed had sensed some evil lurking, waiting for the dark to fall.
Blindly, Digger crashed through the reeds, running in stark fear, Thork haling back upon the reins to no avail, for the horseling had seized the bit and was not to be headed. But in that moment, Digger hurled through a reed wall, and suddenly Châk and pony were floundering in a slough, Thork losing his seat and pitching headlong into the mire.
Weltering, Thork got his head above the quaking bog, and managed to struggle upright. Digger flopped and wallowed an arm’s length away, the quavering muck sucking at them both, threatening to draw them under. And a gagging stench, like rotten eggs, rose up about them.
Again Digger screamed in panic, the pony’s eyes rolling white with terror, the steed plunging and floundering, sinking deeper.
“Kruk! Dök, praug, dök! [Excrement! Stop, pony, stop!]” raged Thork, now up to his chest in the mire, while the panic-stricken steed flopped and struggled, grunting and squealing.
Thork strove to reach Digger’s side, to calm the animal, but just as suddenly the pony stopped its frantic thrashing.
And Thork looked up through the gathering dusk, and in the shadows his eyes locked with those of a tall, green-eyed, copper-haired Woman mounted upon a grey steed. And from all appearances, she was one of the thieving Riders.
The turning wheels of Fate had spun full round, and neither the warrior on the shore nor the one in the bog could know what the future held. The only thing of import at that very moment was that each one saw in the other the face of a hated foe.
CHAPTER 34
The Bargain
Early Winter, 3E1602
[This Year]
Again the etheric self of Black Kalgalath watched as the dark shape of Andrak crossed the heaving magma deep within the fiery caldera of the Fire-drake’s volcanic domain. And molten stone spumed and lava fountains burst forth to drench the approaching form, to no avail, for onward came the figure through the shimmering blast. At last the dark visitant stood at the foot of the flaming dais, and the Dragon waited for the Mage to speak.
“Two who sought the Kammerling are dead, Drake,” whispered the voice of the Wizard, “storm-slain. Once more by my hand you are safe; the Rage Hammer remains untouched by any would-be heroes.”
Black Kalgalath inclined his head, acknowledging Andrak’s words but saying nought, divining the Mage’s real purpose in coming, waiting, silent laughter mocking.
Andrak took a half step forward. “Did you acquire the treasure, Dark Wyrm?”
Still Kalgalath said nought, the mirth of his silence confirming what the Magus already knew.
“Remember our bargain, Drake,” sissed Andrak, dark hands reaching out, clutching. “The silver horn: Was it there? I must have it. I will send for it.”
Slowly, down and forward the black Dragon snaked his head, until his golden eyes were level with the ebon cowl, his Drake’s gaze seeking to penetrate the darkness within the hood, failing. Molten stone poured in a stream from overhead; bubbling lava heaved.
“No, Mage,” hissed Kalgalath at last, “it was not there.” And the Drake threw back his head, his thundering laughter booming within the seething chamber.
Andrak clenched his hands in fury, knuckles turning white. Long moments passed, and still Kalgalath’s laughter bellowed forth. Yet at last Andrak’s rage abated, and reason held sway. “Then it must be churning at the bottom of the Maelstrom, pulled down with the Dragonships of the Fjordsmen. Hence, it is not lost, just mislaid. There is still a chance for recovery, Wyrm, mayhap in a century or so, at the next mating time. Mayhap before, can I influence one of the Krakens to seek it. Regardless, it is still owed to me by you, and when next you couple within those dark depths—”
Black Kalgalath’s roar of anger whelmed down upon Andrak’s form, and a raving jet of fire burst forth from the Drake’s throat and blasted the Mage . . . to no effect. “You!” thundered the Fire-drake. “I owe you nought! Our bargain was that if the silver horn was in the hoard at Jordkeep, then would I deliver it to you. Heed me, fool: It was not in the hoard, and so our bargain is done! And if you expect me to search for an unimportant trinket during the dire time of the mating, then you are a greater fool than even I suspected!”
Andrak’s figure shook in rage, and he started moving his hands in an arcane pattern, yet stopped almost immediately, realizing the futility of the gesture as long as both he and the Dragon were in their present forms.
And so they glared long at one another: the Drake crouching on a molten throne, as if to leap upon this intruder; the Mage with no discernible eyes, yet rage burning forth from his dark cowl. And all
about them lava spewed and molten rock poured down in seething streams from above. At last Andrak broke the impasse: “I will have that horn, Wyrm,” he vowed, and spun on his heel and stalked off through the fire and brimstone.
And Black Kalgalath watched as the dark visitant slowly crossed the molten cauldron. And the mighty Dragon thought upon the raging deeps of the Great Maelstrom, and of the dreadful creatures that dwelled down within that hideous abyss. “Not likely, Mage,” he hissed to himself. “Not likely.”
CHAPTER 35
The Black Spire
Early Winter, 3E1602
[The Present]
Down and around the great flank of Black Mountain fared Elyn and Thork, knee-deep snow slowing their pace. Behind them lay the hidden Wizardholt; ahead, they knew not what. Yet northward they trekked: Thork leading, steering toward a target he knew as nought but a black pulsation upon the great strange spherical map of the Mages; Elyn following, her eyes fixed upon Thork’s back, trudging within the trail he broke for now, knowing that her turn would come, her mind speculating upon the long skein of events that had brought them to this time and place, knowing it was all part of the warp and woof of the Unseen Weaver.
And their breath blew whitely on the thin frigid air, and icy coldness clutched at them.
Yet down the northern buttress of Black Mountain strove warrior and Warrior Maiden, the broad granite shoulders warding them from the direct rays of the low winter Sun, a Sun whose light shone brightly upon snow lying upon distant slopes ahead. But even though they travelled in the mountain shadow, still both wore the slitted eye guards that warded against snow blindness.
All day they travelled thus in the chill mountain shade, exchanging places now and again but ever bearing northward, trusting to the words of the Wolfmage, trusting as well that their interpretation of the globe led them toward Andrak’s strongholt, and that the Kammerling lay within.
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