“He wast slain on this mission, killed by Andrak.”
Thork’s mind returned to Andrak’s quarters, to a table upon which rested twelve skulls, one of which was an Earthmaster’s.
“Others followed,” continued Orth, “coming to Andrak’s holt. But the very stone itself wast warded ’against us, and we couldst do nought, though the Kammerling didst we see above. We had cometh in anger to taketh back Adon’s Hammer, but Andrak’s spells wert too strong.
“And so, we setteth watch upon the holt, waiting for the time that the wards wouldst slip, or waiting for the time that the minor prophecy wouldst be fulfilled: either wouldst do.
“Twelve hundred years passed, and no champion won through, until thou camest with thy companion. And when Andrak wast destroyed, so fell his wards; no longer wert we held at bay. Then couldst we destroy that place of evil, that place where Lithon wast taken and bound and slain. Then couldst we undermine the stone upon which this vile fortress rested; then didst we topple the tower.”
“So it was you who brought the spires down,’ exclaimed Thork. “We heard your signals. Elyn . . . Elyn did.”
“Aye, ’twas my kindred. ’Twas Chale.”
In amazement, Thork envisioned the Giant who followed behind and sealed the stone, for he was Chale. And he stood but twelve feet tall. Yet it was he who single-handedly had toppled the massive black spires. The power of these Folk must be . . . terrible when unleashed in anger.
“And we recovered Lithon’s orbs, for that is what we bury deep, the eyes of the dead. His wert like unto the jewelstones thou namest diamonds—clear, crystal.” Now it was Orth who wept, not only for Lithon, but also for those Utruni killed at Dragonslair, though she strode onward, bearing Thork.
Thork’s festering blisters grew worse. A fever came upon him, and at times he fell into delirium, his words sometimes wild, sometimes sane. Orth continued to speak to him, telling him tales, often not knowing whether he was awake or asleep, aware or uncomprehending, at other times knowing that he was lucid and listening.
“Ah, so those are thine Folk; and thou namest them Châkka.” Orth smiled down at the Dwarf, even though he could not see in the darkness; at the moment he was delirious and babbling, speaking of building a gateway. “We admire the work of the Châkka, for thou doth beautify and strengthen the stone, enhancing it to our eyes. Unlike the work of the Foul Folk, for they destroy that which be beautiful, ruining all that they doth touch.”
On they strode, Thork mostly incoherent, though at times his words were plain. And now he argued with an imaginary companion:
“I suppose you would have me relinquish all claim to the treasure!”
Exactly so!
“Pfaugh! It is ours!”
Nonsense! It belongs to he who is strong enough and cunning enough to wrest it from the Dragon.
“Hush, Woman! You are, you are . . .”
Beloved.
“O my Elyn, why does it have to hurt so?”
In the town of Inge in the Land of Aralan lived a healer on the edge of the village. There came in the night a knock on the door, and as the eld Woman lit a taper and shuffled to answer, little did she expect who, what, stood without.
The patient they left behind was in dire need: fevered, inflamed, burnt and blistered, the eld Woman applying poultices and herbs, brewing special tea, preparing soups of roots and bulbs gathered throughout the summers upon the slopes of the nearby foothills, heating the Dwarf when he had chills, cooling him when sweat runnelled down. She would not lose this patient, oh, no, for he was somebody to have such comrades. And over the next month, he slowly healed: his fever breaking at the end of the first week, his strength slowly returning over the next three. Yet he suffered from a malady for which she had no diagnosis, no cure: often for no reason that she could discern, she would find him weeping.
At last Thork took his leave, but ere he went, the healer, Madra by name, gave him that which the Giants had left: a fistful of uncut gems, and another one of pure malleable gold, and a wondrous shield made of Dragonhide.
Thork purchased two ponies, and supplies and weaponry and clothes, and set out for his distant Châkkaholt, leaving behind a prosperous village, especially the healer within.
And all the way westward, when he lay at night upon the earth, from deep within he could hear the measured signalling of Utruni, escorting him on his journey home.
It was late spring when he came finally unto the gates of Kachar, and much had changed since last he saw them nearly a year agone.
“Who goes?” called the sentry through the dusk, looking at this flame-scarred Châk, beard and hair growing once again, yet still uneven and rough.
“I be Thork, son of Brak, brother to Baran, DelfLord of Kachar,” called back the traveller, dismounting from his pony, leading it into the light of torches burning aflank the portal, the Dragonhide shield aglitter upon the mount. “And I am come home.”
CHAPTER 44
Vengeance
Spring, 3E1603
[This Year]
Long did it take the Foul Folk from distant Carph to reach the holt of Andrak, even though driven by the evil one through his surrogate; for it was a journey of many miles, and they could but travel at night when the Ban struck not, seeking safety in the splits and cracks of the land ere dawn, when would rise the accursed Sun.
Even so, at last they came up from the southeast and unto the mountains of Xian.
And when they came to the ruin of Andrak’s fortress, they called unto their master: “Gulgok!”
And the vacant eyes of the surrogate filled will evil, cruelty glaring forth.
“Destroyed?” he hissed, enraged by what he saw. “The fortress destroyed? How can this be?”
The black stone of the dark spires lay shattered upon the grey valley floor, bursted apart where they had toppled. The master pondered such destruction, wondering at the power of the foe who had come unto Andrak’s, wondering how to deal with such might should the need arise.
“To Dragonslair!” he commanded at last, and then the eyes of the surrogate fell vacant once more, and a drooling idiot was left among the Rūcken ranks.
Across the face of Mithgar trekked the band, loping through the land at night, resting underground by day. Along the Grimwall they went, through the mountains, for ancient holts lay therein, places of safety from Adon’s Ban.
Yet when they came within a hundred miles or so from Dragonslair, some thirty-three leagues from their goal, grey pumice lay across the ’scape, in places deep enough to swallow a Rūck whole.
And when the evil one saw such, still he commanded them onward, his words harsh, saying to be certain that his surrogate survived the journey if none else did.
And so they struggled mightily, the journey arduous, for even a few short miles through this Hèllish ’scape took days to cover. Yet they persisted, driven by fear, and at last stood where the erupting ruin could be seen, its slopes blasted down, sulfuric yellow smoke belching out, glowing lava running in red and yellow streams down the devastated flanks.
And again they called the master, and once more the evil came and looked, and knew that Black Kalgalath was slain, for nought else could explain such destruction.
And back in the dark chamber beneath the frozen wastes, long sibilant laughter hissed forth. And those within cringed in fear, for they knew not what it boded. And long did the laughter fill the darkness, for Modru’s plot had come to fruition. And the crowning part of the scheme was that he had used the Drake himself to move the hammer from a place where no hero would seek it to a place where some would try, a place where only the fittest would succeed: the strongest, or the cleverest, or the most fortunate. Just the type needed to slay a Dragon. For that was what it was all about, the slaying of a Dragon. And no matter the trait of the one to succeed—be it luck or strength or cunning, or a combination thereof—it would be needed to kill a Drake, as indeed had come about.
And this is why Modru laughed, for now his vengeanc
e was complete: Black Kalgalath, the mighty Drake whose aid could have altered the outcome of the Great War, Black Kalgalath, the Drake who refused to cast his lot with that of Modru, Black Kalgalath, who betrayed the High Master, Gyphon, Black Kalgalath was dead . . . by Modru’s hand, or just as good as.
True, Andrak had been slain; but that had always been a possibility, a risk that Modru had readily accepted when first he conceived his magnificent scheme.
And so Modru laughed long in the darkness, calling out time and again, “Do you not see the beauty of my plan: the Drake himself was the agent of his own downfall.”
Days passed, and at long last Modru’s pleasure abated. Once again his malevolence clotted upon the throne. And now he sat waiting: for a great dark rock to complete its long, long journey; for a stone that would arrive some twenty-four hundred years hence; for a hideous feartoken to come rucketing down amidst fire and thunder; for the power that would at last set him and his minions free: free to conquer, to destroy, to ravage the land; free to loose his own Master and rule the world. He waited for the day this thing would come at last, and waited for the darkest day beyond, when would be realized the greatest vengeance of all.
And far above the deep black granite, the whelming wind thundered endlessly down upon the icy scape, shrieking in fury, yet not matching the seething rage below.
CHAPTER 45
Promises Kept
Summer and Fall, 3E1603
[The Present]
The evening that Thork returned to Kachar was one of great joy and of great grief and perhaps of great rancor: joy, for the heir to the throne had returned; grief, for Thork learned of the death of his beloved brother, Baran, slain by a spear meant for another; rancor, for it seemed that Bolk but reluctantly stepped aside, grudgingly giving over the power he wielded unto the DelfLord born.
And he found a Châkkaholt upon a War footing, readying for an assault upon Jordkeep.
Yet he conducted no business of state that night, instead calling for an assembly of the Chief Captains and Counsellors to take place in the Council Hall at mid of day on the morrow.
And Thork sought out his mother, Sien, the Châkian waiting in her chambers. Gracefully she stood and took his hands in hers, and from within her veils looked past his flame-scarred face and deep into his eyes, and saw within a terrible grieving, and a heart torn by anguish nearly beyond bearing. She knew that Thork mourned for Baran, for that was reflected in the sadness she saw. But the pain he held deep within went far beyond the sorrow of brother grieving for brother. Nay, this was something more. Yet she said nought, knowing that he would tell of it in his own time, when he could bear to speak of it.
Long they talked into the night: of the War, of the casualties, of Baran and Brak, of things past and present, of events yet to be. But of his journeys, Thork said nought, and Sien then knew that therein lay his broken heart.
Thork sat in the DelfLord’s chair, while all about him the hall filled with Châkka, Captains taking their seats, Counsellors likewise, many hurrying through the chamber doors to be within ere the Council started. The great room buzzed with conversation, Captains and Counsellors speculating upon what DelfLord Thork would say, what DelfLord Thork would do, speculating, too, upon when they would set out northward to take the War to the Men, a War that would have already begun but for the raid of Black Kalgalath on Springday morn when he buried the gate once again. At last the signal came that the Sun stood at the zenith, and Thork signified that the doors were to be closed, latecomers just squeezing past as the portals swung to.
All eyes turned expectantly unto the DelfLord, and Thork stood. He was dressed in burnished black-iron chain mail, and a rune-marked axe was at his right hand. His damaged beard and hair had been washed and combed and trimmed as best could be, his flame-scarred face turning slowly left to right as he surveyed all those within. Conversation fell to a murmur, to a cough or two here and there, to silence. And when the entire chamber was quiet, the DelfLord spoke, his voice soft, but all could hear him: “This War with Jord is done. We will fight no more.”
The hall exploded: Châkka leapt to their feet and shouted in rage, oaths filling the air; others fell back into their seats in shock and dismay; still others waited quietly, for they would hear out the new DelfLord. Many turned to Bolk at the opposite end of the table, for he was chief until Thork’s return. And it was Bolk who held the floor when the uproar subsided.
“By Hèl, you cannot do this, Lord Thork, for we are upon the verge of total victory over these Riders! We are set to march unto Jordkeep and throw it down and take back the treasure that is rightfully ours.”
Shouts of agreement rose up, and Bolk nodded savagely to those about who supported him.
Thork waited until this demonstration had nearly run its course, then held up his hands for quiet. It was a long time coming, yet at last silence reigned.
“There is no treasure at Jordkeep. Black Kalgalath tore down the castle and rent open the vault and took the trove unto himself. And when Kalgalath was destroyed in turn, the treasure was destroyed, too, lost in the ruin of Dragonslair. But heed me! Even were there yet a trove, still would this War be over!”
Again the hall erupted in sound, shouts of dismay and disbelief ringing throughout: Kalgalath dead and Dragonslair ruined? . . . treasure destroyed? Jordkeep . . . ?
This time when the DelfLord held up his hands, silence came more quickly; yet it was Bolk whose words intruded, his voice ringing: “You say these things, Lord Thork, yet how know you that Black Kalgalath is dead? How know you that the trove be destroyed, that Jordkeep is torn asunder?”
A rumble went through the assembled Châkka, for now Bolk trod on dangerous stone, questioning the DelfLord as he did.
Thork gritted his teeth, yet held his temper, as all eyes swung his way. “I know these things, Captain Bolk, for my companion and I slew Black Kalgalath with the Kammerling.”
Slew the Drake? Shouts of astonishment burst forth, yet quickly subsided as Thork held up a hand for silence.
But again it was Bolk who held the floor: “You have not answered all my questions, Lord Thork. Yet I will add to them: Who was this companion you declare helped you slay a Dragon? And, too, if it be as you say, then where be this fabled Kammerling you claim to have wielded? Where be the proof of what you say?”
Now did all the Châkka assembled glance back and forth between these two, for it seemed certain that Bolk and Thork would come to combat.
And Thork’s hand reached down and gripped the haft of his axe, hefting the weapon onto the table and laying it before him, his knuckles white. Even so, he managed to release the helve, and then he spoke: “You go too far, Captain Bolk, with the tone and tenor of your questions; yet this once will I answer all you have asked:
“My companion was Princess Elyn, Warrior Maiden of Jord, daughter to King Aranor.”
Sharply indrawn breaths greeted this news, but chopped to silence as Thork went on.
“That Jordkeep is torn asunder, I know by her word.
“That the Drake took the trove to Dragonslair, I know because I saw it therein.
“That the Dragon was slain by the Kammerling, I know because I did it.
“That the trove is destroyed, I know for it was in a firemountain blasted apart: Dragonslair.
“That Dragonslair exploded, you should know, for it did so in the afternoon of the first day of spring, and I am told that the cataclysm of its ruin was felt and heard here in Kachar as well as far beyond.
“That the Kammerling is not with me is because it is buried deep within the unbearable heat of the melt below what is left of Dragonslair; this I know for Orth the Utrun verified it.
“I bear my proof upon my face, Captain Bolk, in the form of scars. Yet would you have further proof, then go unto the shattered firemountain, if you can reach it, for its wreck now lies in the center of a Hèl upon Mithgar, the land and all life destroyed for twenty leagues in all directions, in some directions more, the ruins now be
lching fire and fumes and vomiting up lava.
“That I survived was the doing of the Stone Giants; but my companion, Princess Elyn of Jord, was slain.”
Beloved.
Amid an uproar of sound, Thork sat down, letting the clamor run its course, composing himself.
And when the noise subsided, again it was Bolk who spoke up: “All you say may be true, Lord Thork, but still I say we march upon Jord. For I tell you that we are upon the verge of total victory. And they have much to answer for. I will not be denied my vengeance!”
Thork’s face darkened with fury, his scars flaring scarlet. He leapt to his feet and Blang! slammed the flat of his axe to the stone table.
“By Hèl, Bolk, I say this War is done!”
They stood glaring at one another, each quivering with wrath. Yet it was Bolk who was first to yield: choking back his rage, he spun on his heel and stalked from the chamber.
And in the strongholt of Kachar, many were the bitter arguments among the Châkka in the night, as claims clashed with counterclaims, and strategies and tactics were argued, and vengeance was weighed against losses, and against bloodgield and treasure, or its lack.
Some Châkka called for a march unto Jordkeep to set siege to the ruins of the castle and crush the Men; yet others pointed out that if they did so they would be battling upon the Riders’ own territory, not in a narrow lieu as before the gates of Kachar where the Châkka held the advantage, but instead out upon the open plains where the Men upon their swift horses would hold the upper hand.
And in dark chambers deep within Kachar, a few even thought to act against Thork, to rise up in rebellion, to cast him out, to banish him; yet they did not, for he was DelfLord, and to do so would be to take a stride upon the path of dishonor.
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