And overshadowing all was what DelfLord Thork had revealed concerning his mission, the tale that he had told: of Princess Elyn, of the Kammerling, of Black Kalgalath and of Dragonslair and of the trove. And of the legendary Utruni. None disbelieved that these things were true, for all had felt the juddering of the earth in the late afternoon on the first day of spring. And they all had seen Thork’s scars, obviously made by flame. Further, they did not believe that the DelfLord would lie about such a thing; it would be too easy to disprove were it not the truth; besides, Lord Thork had never been known to say false, and so they accepted the truth of it. But they knew only that which he had said within the Council Chamber, and nought else; and speculation ran wild concerning the whole of it, concerning the full story, yet no more did he reveal.
And at last they came to accept Lord Thork’s decree— even Bolk seemed to accept it, though it was plain to see that rage lurked just below the surface—and thus it was that the War footing came unto an end. Even so, long lasted the ire of the Châkka toward the Riders, and the name Elgo was forever spat like a curse.
Within the week of his return, DelfLord Thork sent an expedition off to set claim upon Blackstone and all therein, following a plan made a year agone to recover that lost Châkkaholt, a plan laid down just before Foul Elgo had come unto Kachar.
Too, he sent emissaries under a grey flag unto the battle-weary Vanadurin, bearing an unexpected peace offering, setting aside the War, cancelling all debt between them.
And he sent a private message to be given over to King Aranor, a message concerning his daughter Elyn. Never had Thork composed a missive so difficult to bear the writing of, though it contained but few words.
The stunned Harlingar accepted Thork’s unconditional terms, though they did not understand why the Dwarven King demanded nothing when he was on the verge of victory.
And for weeks, Aranor kept the private message next to his heart, and would read it now and then, grieving as he did so. But in the end he placed the note in a small golden box, and took it unto the barrows, and buried it ’neath green turves next to Elgo’s mound.
It was in late summer that Thork rode to meet Aranor upon the Jordian plains. Thork had again sent a messenger under grey flag unto Jordkeep, and now Thork and his entourage rode down through the blowing mist and out of Kaagor Pass, heading toward the steppes beyond the foothills, for Aranor had agreed to meet the DelfLord there at the edge of the mountains. The sky was dark with roiling clouds, the weather dank and chill, for autumn was at hand, and soon the snows would come unto the Grimwall, and then would winter fall upon the mountains above, and later to the lands below. Yet for now, green clad the slopes, though leaves would soon begin to change. And fog and cloud swirled among the peaks as down came the DelfLord and his band ’neath the lowering skies, all the Châkka upon their ponies, for in those days no Dwarf would ever ride a horse.
Beneath grey flags, the King of Jord and the DelfLord of Kachar met at the edge of the prairie, Aranor now looking older than his years, Thork’s features desolate. The two of them dismounted and walked out into the grass together, the tall Man and the compact Dwarf, leaving behind their escorts, Châkka and Vanadurin hostilely eyeing one another, looking for signs of treachery.
Rider King and Dwarven DelfLord strode some distance away, then stopped and spoke to one another. All of what they said was not scribed in detail, though some of the record remains; yet it is certain that they spoke of Elyn, though haltingly and briefly, neither able to bear saying more. They spoke, too, of the destroyed trove, and of pride and greed setting them both upon the road to Death.
Often the conversation would pause for long moments, neither saying aught, memories stirring.
Aranor looked back at the stiff postures of his Men on horses, and the like attitude of the Dwarves. “Mayhap someday our two Folk will be allies once again; yet now is not that time.”
“Aye,” agreed Thork. “Long years will pass ere the Châkka will relent, for we have a saying among my Folk: ‘He who seeks the wrath of the Châkka finds it! Forever!’ ”
Yet other words haunted Thork as well: . . . no hatred, no vengeance, no neglect is passed on forever; it must come to rest somewhere, to vanish in the eternity of time or to die under the weight of love.
“But in the end, King Aranor, I deem you will be right: someday our two Folk will be allies once again.”
Once more a long silence stretched between the two as the chill wind blew across the grass, Aranor squatting down and plucking a green blade, briefly studying it, then looking out across the plains.
“I have sent Châkka unto Blackstone,” said Thork at last, “for we intend to reclaim our ancient home. Be there any of the trove overlooked, I will equal share it with you, for I have a promise to keep.”
“I do not want it, Lord Thork,” replied Aranor, standing, glancing back to his escort where sat Ruric at its head, the Armsmaster grizzled as an eld Wolf. “Ruric had the right of it from the first: Dracongield be cursed. And I have paid, you and I have both paid, too dearly for that hoard already: you, your sire and brother; I, both of my get; each of us, many good warriors who didn’t deserve to die. And all because of Dracongield—Nay! Not the gold of Dragons, but instead what that gold does to the hearts and minds of those who would possess it, of those whom it possesses in turn. So if there be any of the trove remaining, then I say, cast it into the deeps where lies the rest.”
They sat in dark thought for long moments. And now it was Aranor who broke the silence between them: “They say that only eternal night rains down upon the dead.”
Tears in his eyes, the King of Jord looked long at the King of Kachar, as if waiting for confirmation . . . or an answer. Finally Thork responded: “Not as long as there is someone left alive who still remembers. Not as long as there’s someone left alive who yet cares.”
Who yet loves . . .
As if by mutual consent, they turned and slowly walked back unto the waiting entourages and bestrode their steeds. Without a word, each reined his mount about, and they rode away from one another, escorts following beneath grey flags, returning home.
And a chill rain began to weep from the leaden skies above.
It was in the early fall when a mud-splattered Châk came riding a pony unto Kachar through an afternoon drizzle. He spoke a word or two unto the gate warders, and was immediately escorted to Thork’s work chamber. The DelfLord sat gazing at a small crucible, remembering Brak, remembering his sire. Thork set the vessel aside and signed the young warrior, Otar by name, to speak.
“My Lord, I am come from Blackstone and I bear astonishing news: A great treasure we found in the very first chamber, the gate chamber: a Dragonhide! A full Dragonhide! Or nearly so. It lay upon the floor: empty, but for ashes within; complete, but for a swatch missing from its face. Never have I seen such wealth, nor had any of us; we were stunned, for it just lay there unattended, in the open for any to take, glittering in the sunlight when it shone through the portal, and in the moonlight at night. But none had taken it, this trove, and so it is rightfully ours.”
“Sleeth,” grunted Thork.
“Aye,” agreed Otar, “that is our thought, too. We believe the missing piece from his face adorns your shield. We also deem that Adon’s Ban reached through the hole left behind and turned the Drake’s innards to ashes.
“Ah, but the great glittering hide is untouched by the Ban. The things we will craft from it will be priceless. There is nothing else like it upon the face of Mithgar.”
“Except upon a live Drake,” responded Thork, and he fell into long thought. After a while: “What of the rest of Blackstone? How fares it?”
“Lord Thork, it be rich with ores. Gemstone lodes as well. It rightfully deserves to be called the Jewel of the Châkkaholts, for with labor we can wrest great wealth from Blackstone, from the earth below the Mountains that Elwydd gave unto us.”
“Good, Otar. Now would I have you come unto the baths, and make yourself presentable
for my Counsellors, for I would have you tell them the tale you have told me, and more. And while you prepare, I will sit with you, and we will take a meal, for I would have a full report ere you speak to them. . . . Too, I have something to tell them as well.”
Again there was uproar within the Council Chamber, for DelfLord Thork had just announced that he intended to give half the Dragonhide unto the Jordians, or if not the hide itself, then half its worth. Debate raged back and forth: concerning who owned the hide; concerning the Jordians’ rights in this matter, since they themselves had abandoned the hide, since they themselves had told Baran that the Châkka were welcome to Blackstone and all that was therein—even though the Dwarves contended that Blackstone was always theirs, and so for the Jordians to grant such was moot; and finally, concerning the rights of a DelfLord to be so free with Châkka wealth . . . should the hide prove to be fully theirs.
Yet in the end, after listening to interminable talk, Thork stood and declared: “Assault me no more with your arguments, for I would have no such clatterous cacophony assailing mine ears. Half goes unto the Harlingar, can we find a way to give it to them. So I have said; so shall it be.” And at these words all the Counsellors assented, for Thork had invoked the DelfLord’s decree.
As Thork walked back to his chamber, once again his mind stood before a dark cave leading into the Dragonslair holt of Black Kalgalath.
Thork, should you fall in battle and should I survive, I here and now renew my pledge to you: I will do all within my power to stop this mistaken War between our two Folk, I will share and share alike all Dracongield between Jord and Kachar, and make whatever amends are appropriate, cancelling all debt. . . .
My Lady, this pledge between us need not be renewed here and now, for it exists within each of us forever . . . whether or no it is said aloud again. Yet would it please you to hear the words, then I do so swear once more.
I do so swear once more.
I do so swear once more. . . .
Thork went to seek out his mother, Sien, ready at last to speak to her of Elyn.
CHAPTER 46
Red Hawk
Fall, 3E1603
[The Present]
It took nearly three weeks for Thork to tell his dam the full tale—starting from when he first met Elyn in the Khalian Mire, until that fateful day in Dragonslair—bits here, pieces there, for each time he spoke, it was as if the telling made it happen all over again, and he was soon overcome with anguish and could not continue. Sien would sit quietly, saying but little, her soft words signifying that she understood. At times, Thork would resume the tale; at other times, he would leave. Yet always he returned, taking up from where he had last left off, as if no time had elapsed between. And so, as the days passed, in fits and starts Thork managed to tell her the whole of it, until the story was done.
And when it was finished, then it was Sien who came to be with him, for although the tale was told, she knew that her son’s heart was yet filled with anguish, and that he would not rest until this, too, had been spoken of. And so, she would sit with him and listen to his words, saying little unless asked, while his heart bled.
There came a day when they sat together in the throne room—Thork upon the chair of state, his dam, Sien, sitting among her veils upon the side steps of the dais—speaking softly, Thork’s words gentle, remembering:
“There was a time, Mother, when defeating the Jordians and regaining the trove occupied all my thoughts. And when Black Kalgalath stood in the way of that goal, I set out to defeat him as well. Yet little did I know that along the way, I would lose a treasure beyond calculation.
“—Her eyes held the starlight . . . did I tell you?”
Sien nodded, saying nought.
“I did not tell her that I loved her.” Tears stood in Thork’s eyes.
His dam’s eyes glistered as well. “Fear not, my son, for if you loved her, then she knew . . . she knew.”
Thork’s words fell to but a whisper: “That she loved me, I deem was so. . . .” his mind flashing back:
Ah, Thork, what I am trying to say is that I do not want this to end.
“She pulled me from the swamp and changed my life forever. . . .
“Seven months we strode the land, arguing, disagreeing, agreeing, enduring—battling all comers . . .”
... mayhap we should take to the road as sellswords . . .
“. . . nearly dying more times than I can count, yet somehow, by skill or chance, surviving . . . until . . .”
Would you fight to the death for that which you love . . .
“Mother, she made a deliberate target of herself, so that I . . .”
. . . In a cause surely hopeless ... for that which you love? . . .
“When she lived, then it was that I too was truly alive; but now my heart is slain, Mother, and I am dying inside.
“Mother, I am in such pain. I loved Elyn so very much—”
“A Human?” A voice sneered out from the shadows near the door, Bolk stepping forward, his face filled with scorn.
Thork’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of the throne, his scars flaring crimson with rage. Yet Bolk did not heed these signs, and instead strode inward, his voice brimming with contempt:
“Heed me, Thork, for even the simplest of children know this, yet I will put it in terms that even you can understand: Consider the swallow and the swift: the swallow ever building, the swift ever flying, at times living on the same cliff, but never in the same nest, following Adon’s everlasting laws, never mixing their blood.
“We are like unto them, Châkka and Humans, and never should our bloods mix.”
“Bah!” spat Thork. “Who are you to say what Adon intends? Are we not all children of Elwydd, Humans and Châkka alike?”
“So this is why you have turned your back upon your own Kind! You love a Human!” thundered Bolk. “You are a blind fool and a blasphemer, Thork, but even a fool should know that Châkka blood must remain pure! To mix it with another race, to mix it with that of a Human, to mix it with that of the Princess of the Riders would be an abomination!”
“Yaahhh!” Thork exploded from the throne and leapt upon Bolk, whelming the redheaded Châk back, hurling him to the stone floor of the chamber, his hands clutching Bolk by the throat, throttling him. Bolk smashed at Thork’s face, beating him with fists, then grabbed Thork’s wrists in an attempt to pull the strangling hands away. Mightily Bolk strained, his eyes bulging, his breath choked off, yet Thork was maddened beyond reason, and could not be dislodged. Bolk’s legs thrashed, his heels striking the floor, his feet drumming then jerking spasmodically, his struggles weakening as Thork suffocated him.
Yet of a sudden it was not Bolk’s blackening features that Thork saw in his clutch, but instead those of his brother Baran, of his sire Brak, of his grandsire Delp, of all Châkka reaching hindward into the timeless past, down through the ages unto First Durek himself, and then beyond to where Thork found his own face staring back at him. And then Thork knew: knew that Bolk was no more or less than any other Châk, knew that Bolk was but merely the result of his shaping in youth, as Thork, himself, once had been.
Thork loosed his grip from upon Bolk’s throat, the redheaded Châk slack, unconscious, but breathing again now the clench was gone.
His features pale, his hands trembling, Thork stood and turned to his dam, who still sat upon the steps to the throne. “Mother—”
“He named you the blind fool, my son, but it is he and his ilk who cannot see. Yet I am pleased that you stayed your hand.” Sien’s heart was pounding, and inside she was weak with distress; yet she had not cried out, had not interfered, for from the very beginning the Châkia had known of the deep-running passions of the Châkka, of their tempers and their loves, and did not attempt to hinder their dark wrath. Gathering her strength, Sien stood and moved toward the door, her veils drifting about her. “I will fetch a healer.”
As Sien trod toward the portal, Bolk’s words echoed in her mind: “. .
. Châkka blood must remain pure . . . remain pure . . . pure . . .”
The Châkian stepped through the opening to summon a page.
Fool Bolk! Little does he know about the purity of Châkka blood. . . . Little does he know.
And when Sien had sent the attendant running after a healer, she continued on toward her quarters, keeping the long-held secret of all the Châkia unto herself and her Kind.
In the chamber behind, as Bolk regained consciousness, his first sight was that of Thork upon one knee beside him. Groaning in fear, Bolk attempted to gain to his elbows and hitch hindwards, yet he had not the wherewithal and feebly fell back.
“Heed me, Bolk,” gritted Thork. “I am sending you away from Kachar—to Mineholt North or to the Red Hills, or even unto Kraggen-cor; I have not yet decided which. If I do not send you away, then it is plain that you and I will continue this madness until one or the other of us is slain. Yet ere it comes to that, ere it comes to murder and the consequences thereafter, I am sending you forth from this place to elsewhere, to a place where we can be rid of one another.” Thork’s face grew dark, his scars flaming, and he reached down and clenched a fistful of Bolk’s shirt in his grip, wrenching Bolk upward, dragging Bolk’s face close to his, the redheaded Châk’s eyes wide in fright. “Yet heed me again, Bolk!”—Thork’s words fell like strokes of a hammer upon an anvil—“If you ever utter another word against Princess Elyn, I will hunt you down and slaughter you like a pig and leave your corpse for the crows to eat, no matter the consequences.”
In that moment, a healer rushed in bearing his bag of herbs and simples, of salves and ointments and potions and powders, of gut and needles, of bandages and bindings, and Thork loosed his grip and stood and walked from the chamber, leaving Bolk on the floor behind.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 51