And when the day arrived that the Fire-drake grew weary of his sport, when he no longer came, when the postern tunnels were ready, then DelfLord Baran ordered that the work begin to clear the main gate, and that the Men aid, for they were at the root of this trouble and it was only Just that they help dig themselves out.
“What?” exploded Reynor. “This Dwarf commands us to become moles? Commands us? Nay, Ruric. I am a plainsman born, and I’ll not grub—”
“Ye’ll do as yer own King ha’ decreed!”—Ruric’s words were harsh—“And if that means we must dig, then, by Hèl, we will dig!”
And so the Vanadurin were put to work on the great pile of rubble before the gates, working ’round the clock in shifts alongside the Châkka: prying, levering, shovelling, rolling, carting. And slowly, steadily the talus diminished.
But even though they worked toward a common goal, even though the Harlingar at last were out in the open air, even though both sides now had a hard, laborious task to occupy them, the animosity between Man and Dwarf diminished little, though the number of duels dropped nigh to nought.
And in that same time, the Dragon-slain were gathered up by their respective comrades, though at times, as mutilated as they were, it was difficult to tell whether the dead were Dwarves or Men. And each side took care of its own, the Harlingar burying their slaughtered brothers-in-arms, the Châkka burning theirs; and the Châkka shook their heads in puzzlement that the Men would throw their slain into holes in the ground, assuring that their spirits would be trapped an additional age by the soil and roots in their place of interment instead of being swiftly set free by the purifying fire; the Vanadurin were equally puzzled as to why the Châkka would burn their own, leaving nought behind to remember but ashes, instead of a clean, grassy mound.
Finally, after seventeen days of continuous toil, of breaking rock and clearing boulder, of shovelling scree and hauling talus, the gate was clear: the Men could leave.
Up out of the depths they came, out of the holt of Kachar: nine hundred horses and somewhat over a thousand Harlingar, many of whom were wounded, most from the War, some from the Dragon, a few from duels. Yet DelfLord Baran had given King Aranor some twelve wains, and some of the horses were drafted to draw these waggons forth from the Châkkaholt and over the mountains to Jordkeep, waggons bearing wounded, waggons bearing Men who had no mounts of their own.
And when all the Men were evacuated, and the waggons trundled toward Kaagor Pass, the mounted Harlingar wheeled in long array, and faced a greater array of Châkka on foot, the Dwarves bearing weapons and wearing armor, the armed Vanadurin mounted upon horses, chain and leather gleaming in the morning Sun. This was the time of leave-taking, for Aranor had called for a return to Jord. Yet there was one more ceremony to be performed, and this was the time of its doing. Then did Baran step forth from the ranks of his warriors, and he bore a grey flag upon a wooden standard. And breaking the staff across his knee and casting the flag to the earth, he cried for all to hear, “This Dragontruce is done!”
And Aranor so signified by a nod of his head.
Yet suddenly, ere any could stop him, Bolk stepped forward also, and he pulled a flag from out of his armor. Green and white it was, and he held it up for all to see—a white horse rampant upon a field of green—the battle flag of Jord, a flag taken weeks past from among the battle-slain. And Bolk spat upon it and hurled it to the earth and ground it into the soil with his heel.
And Reynor, in a rage, all his hatred for this squat, bearded jailor exploding in fury, spurred forward, right at Bolk, spear raised for throwing—
“No!” cried Aranor.
“Kill the bastard!” shouted Gannor
—a Dwarf in Bolk’s Company raising his crossbow—
—Reynor’s arm hurtling forward—
—quarrel flying—
—hand loosing shaft—
The bolt struck Reynor in the throat the instant he released his lance, deflecting his aim. And as Reynor pitched backward over his cantle, dead ere striking the ground, the hard-thrown spear punched through the chain of the Dwarf standing next to Bolk, piercing his heart and beyond, running him through; and thus it was that Baran, DelfLord of Kachar, fell dead, slain by a weapon meant for another.
And the field exploded in battle.
Long did it last, and it was bloody, Men falling upon one side, Châkka upon the other. Yet at last the Men withdrew, Aranor leaving the field with less than seven hundred Harlingar, most of them wounded.
Aranor sat ahorse and looked down into the valley. And at his side was Ruric.
“A valley of death we gaze upon, Old Wolf,” said Aranor at last, breaking the long silence. “Our warriors, our youth, lie slain upon this bloody field. The future of our nation is bleak, and many years will pass ere we recover.”
“ ’Tis the curse o’ the Dracongield, my Lord. I be now the lone survivor o’ that ill-fated raid. Would that we ha’ ne’er heard o’ Sleeth and his terrible hoard o’ gold.”
Long moments more they sat, each deep within his own thoughts, but at last Aranor gave the signal.
Defeated, the Men of Jord turned for home.
And deep within the Châkkaholt, where the wailing voices of Châkia keened over the newly slain, Bolk, mighty in battle, slammed his axe to the council table. “Then it is settled: Come the spring, we shall take this War unto the gates of Jordkeep. We shall slay the Men and take back that which be rightfully ours: the treasure of Blackstone.”
For at that time they did not know, could not know, that the keep of Aranor lay in shambles, and that the hoard of Sleeth was gone.
CHAPTER 39
Knells in the Stone
Winter, 3E1602-03
[The Present]
The echoes stopped ringing and the earth stopped trembling; the spires had fallen and smashed asunder; Andrak’s strongholt was no more. And in the lee of a mountain, two had witnessed the cataclysmic destruction, in awe, wondering at such a calamity. Yet one gathered his wits and thought of what might follow: “Princess, we must flee, and now, cross-country,” said Thork, stepping toward the debris scattered across the ’scape, a slight limp in his stride, “for mayhap some Men at Andrak’s holt set out searching for us ere the fortress fell, and they are not bound by the Sun.”
“What would they want with us now, Thork?” asked Elyn.—Rach! She rubbed a tender elbow. Must have taken hurts in the crash. We’ll be sore in the morning. Massaging her arm as she went toward her pack, again she asked: “What would they want? Vengeance? Robbery? Duty? It hardly seems likely that such would carry out an order given by a dead Rutch, or Drōkh, or Guul, or even a dead Human commander, for surely all must have perished in the collapse.” Elyn took loose her bow from the pack, checking it for damage. Nought but a scratch that can be taken out with fat or oil, or by rubbing the sweetmeat of a nut in the mark. One of her arrows was snapped in twain, but the rest had survived.
“I know not why they would pursue,” Thork answered, “but if they do, then best we be gone when they arrive.” Thork, too, checked his weapons for breakage, especially the mechanisms of the crossbow: all was well.
Elyn shouldered her backpack, taking her bow in hand, quiver at her hip. “Thork, my saber lies a short way back down the road, run through a Guul, and I would have it.”
Thork nodded, slipping the glamoured hammer, the Kammerling, into the warhammer loop at his belt. Shouldering his pack, shield attached, he took up his axe and then faced southerly. “Then let us be gone, for the day is growing, and I would be away from here.”
They found Elyn’s blade some four hundred paces back the way they had come, alongside the steep bluff, the sword piercing a foul grey shirt amid a pile of filthy clothing; of the Guul, there remained only ashes scattering in the wind. Elyn took up the saber—My sire’s eyes gleamed and he smiled so, and could barely wait for me to unwrap it from the soft cloth. It was my eighteenth summer—and washed the blade clean with snow, then dried it on her own cloak and sheathed
it. “Now, we can leave the road if that be the best strategy, though I think that will put us in the open valley, whereas this route conceals us along the slopes of these cold grey mountains.”
“Aye, that it does,” agreed Thork, “but the road is more likely to be ridden by any who escaped the fall.”
“If we cut cross-country, where are we bound? What line do we take?” To Elyn, all the mountains, though different in detail, were much the same in aggregate. Only Black Mountain to the south did she definitely recognize, and that was only because it was a great ebon beacon among the grey.
Thork turned, sighting through the peaks and crags. “Yon be the four fingers and the thumb that guided us into this range”—Thork pointed out the five crests—“and there lies the pass between. And there”—his hand and arm traced a route for Elyn’s eyes to follow—“save this road, be the easiest route past where Andrak’s holt once stood, though to cross the vale I deem that the most concealed way”—again his free hand traced a route—“lies yon.” And all the while, Elyn’s gaze followed where his hand pointed, agreeing with his assessment, and she marvelled at his quick eye for the lay of the land, his sense of slopes and flats and routes across them, and she was yet amazed by his uncanny Dwarven sense of direction, of location.
“Then let us be gone,” she said when he fell quiet. “You choose, for you are the one to guide—” Suddenly Elyn held up a hand for silence. “Hist! Riders come.” And the sound of hooves knelled, but whether far or near, they could not say, for the road curved out of sight, following the base of the bluff, the stone blocking sight and baffling sound. Quickly shedding her pack, Elyn dropped to the ground, placing her ear to the earth. “Five or six,” she said after a moment, “at a middling gait. A trot. Near. And something else do I hear: a tapping, as of signals.”
While Elyn listened to the vibrations within the ground, Thork looked about, searching for a place of concealment, and barring that, a narrow lieu that they could defend: nothing.
Even as she stood, rounding the bend some fifty yards hence came five riders—Men—and Elyn set arrow to string as Thork slipped from his backpack and hefted his axe.
The swart Men slowed their mounts to a walk, yet steadily came onward, all drawing tulwars but holding them horizontal across their saddles.
“Dök!” cried Thork, falling into his native tongue. “Halt!” he repeated, this time in Common.
The leader of the Men threw up his hand and called out—“Ghoda rhokho!”—in a language that neither Elyn nor Thork understood; it did not sound like the Slûk tongue, but instead something else. And the five reined to a halt. The leader said something low to his Men, then slowly stepped his horse forward while the others waited. Closer he came, until he was but paces away, his sword still gripped athwart withers. Thork raised his hand and again called “Halt!”—the rider stopping. The Man’s skin was brown with a yellowish cast, and his eyes had a cant to them. He wore a black moustache, long and lank, and a thin goatee hung down. His helm was steel, with fur trim and a point jutting upward. His armor was iron rings sewn on leather. And the Man’s tilted eyes looked first at Elyn’s red hair and her white features, then shifted to Thork, taking in his stature and forked beard.
“Kaija, Wolc,” said the rider in some form of greeting, his voice gutteral.
“Speak Common, Man,” growled Thork. “Else begone.”
The rider shook his head and pointed to his ear and mouth, displaying his tongue, then turned and called to one of his Men, motioning him forward.
He seeks to make us believe that he cannot understand, and calls for an “interpreter,” thought Elyn, yet I deem that they are some of Andrak’s spawn: brigands all. “ ’Ware, Thork,” she murmured, cocking a significant eye, first inclining her head slightly toward Thork, then toward the Man before them. Should the need arise, that one is yours.
Thork nodded once, the merest bob, indicating that he understood her unspoken signal, and Elyn wished that he had armed his crossbow, as well as having his axe available.
The second rider came forward, his horse at a trot, and Elyn’s heart beat faster, yet by no sign did she betray her state of alertness, calmly keeping her bow down, the arrow, though strung, pointing earthward.
And as the rider came upon them, instead of slowing he cried “Kha!” and kicked his horse in the flanks, his tulwar raised, the horse leaping ahead to run them down. The leader, too, spurred forward, shouting and raising his blade.
Thunn! Elyn loosed her arrow at the onrushing rider—Ssthok!—the shaft striking him in the chest, piercing him, pitching him from the saddle.
Schlak! Thork’s axe took the leader’s horse down, the animal screaming—“Damn! Damn!” shouted Elyn, hearing the mount’s cry as she set another arrow to string—and Thork leapt after the tumbling steed, his bloody axe cleaving through the rider ere the Man could gain his feet.
Kha! Kha! Onward hurtled the remaining three, and Elyn loosed another shaft, just missing as the Man who was her target ducked and shied his horse aside, his face pale with fear, galloping from the road and away, his comrades fleeing after, none willing to face death at the hands of these twain.
Elyn whirled. There was a free-running mount, a horse on the loose. Could she but capture it, then they could ride double, or switch off.
“Put that wounded animal out of its misery, while I catch up the other,” she bade Thork, her words sharp, setting out at a jog-trot after the loose steed.
“Beware knaves, Princess Elyn, they still be about!” Thork called after her. Without looking back, she raised her bow, indicating she had heard him. And he stepped toward the head of the thrashing, grunting, downed horse, drawing his dagger as he went.
When Elyn returned, riding the slain Man’s steed, Thork was rummaging through the saddlebags of the dead horse. He had uncinched the saddle and had pulled it free, in the event that it had a better seat than the one Elyn rode. The halter, too, was free, in case she would want to swap that as well. As she rode past, Elyn averted her eyes from the throat-cut steed, for somehow the sight of it was worse than that of the axe-chopped brigand. And her mount skitted and shied, snorting at the smell of blood. Yet she held it under control, riding to the nearby wall of the mountain.
Dismounting, she looped the reins about her pack frame, reasoning that it would be enough to hold the gelding, though still it gruntled and blew, nostrils flaring, trying to rid the air of the smell of blood.
“Did you have to axe the horse?” she asked finally. I am Vanadurin, and horses are our lifeblood . . .
“It was that or get run through,” he grunted.
... yet they fall in battle just as do warriors.
Now Elyn turned to the grisly tasks at hand: robbing the dead. Whatever she and Thork found—coins, weapons, armor—could be used in trade on the way back. And she retrieved her arrow from the slain Man, sickened by the thuk it made when it pulled free, for she knew not when arrows would be needed again, and every shaft counted. Too, she went looking in the morning light for the shaft that missed, to no avail, for it had been shot full force at a shallow upward angle, and exactly which direction and how far it had flown was not easily judged.
Altogether, the plunder added up to two tulwars, a dagger, a long-knife, one helm, two ring-mail leather shirts, seventeen coppers, two sets of riding gear, two blanket rolls and miscellaneous field gear, none of it of great value, two pair of saddlebags—each with field rations and each with five days’ supply of oats for the horses—and one live gelding.
Elyn sorted through the riding gear, comparing it with that on the mount, choosing the better of the twain. Damn, we might have had two steeds to ride, had Thork been able to spare the horse. And she stripped the gelding of that which she would discard, replacing it with the other. And as she did so she carefully sized up the steed as well. This horse has been too long without work, stable-bound; it will be days ere he will bear what he should, run as he should, and endure.
“Thork, we cannot
lade the steed with all our gear and ride double as well,” she said as she cinched on the better of the two saddles. “We’ll trade off, one walking, one riding.”
“Did you not listen to me back at the tower?” His voice now held an edge. “I will not ride horses.”
Elyn looked keenly at the Dwarf—He cannot be afraid of horses, for he showed no fear of Wind. Yet for some reason, he will not ride one, even though there is little difference between horse and pony. But now that I hearken back, I have never seen or heard of any Dwarf ever riding a horse—then she turned away, and did not mention it again.
Except for their weaponry and armor, they loaded the gelding with all their own gear and with that which they chose to take of the dead Men’s belongings. Axe in hand, Thork stepped down the road to the curve around the bluff and looked long and intently. He saw no one on the course, or in the empty land; even the surviving brigands who had fled north were no longer in sight. And so, deeming the roadway safe, they set out southerly under leaden skies, walking, leading the laden horse on a long tether, breaking their fast with a biscuit of crue split between them.
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