Dragondoom

CHAPTER 19

Winter, Early Spring, 3E1602

[This Year]

Like wildfire, word of the Slaying of Sleeth spread throughout Jord, and then beyond: into Aven and Riamon and Naud and Kath, and across their far borders as well. Travellers carried the tale: traders, hunters, folk on journeys to see relatives and loved ones. Wherever people fared, they carried the story with them, a story that grew with the telling until it no longer resembled the truth.

There came a howling brumal day that a half-frozen young Man rode through the flinging snow and into the bailey. Guards pulled him from his winter-shagged horse, for he could not dismount on his own, so cold was he. His steed was taken to the stable as the Man himself was led into the warmth of the garrison quarters. And when they had peeled him out of his frozen cloak and had thawed the ice from his hair and eyebrows and beard, they found a handsome youth from the Realm of Pellar. Black was his hair and brown his eyes, and he was as lean as a hungry Wolf. Estor was his name, and he was a bard, and even in the depth of winter he had come unto Jord to seek the roots of truth in this remarkable tale of Men who had slain a Dragon. And after some time he was escorted into the presence of the Prince, and the singer could see for himself the black eye patch and acid-wrought scarring of the Jordian heir, as well as the white streak through Elgo’s coppery hair, a streak said to have appeared when the Longwyrm had become caught in the vortex of the Maelstrom.

Long was he closeted with Elgo, learning the tale. Yet this was not a one-sided exchange, for Elgo learned from Estor that the Jutlander fleet pursuing Arik had perished in the fury of the hurricane, all ships lost; hence it would be many a long year ere the Jutlanders recovered, many a year ere they and the Fjordsmen would clash again to perhaps settle their blood feud once and for all.

Too, Estor spoke at length with the other survivors-Ruric, Reynor, Young Kemp, Pwyl, Arlan, and five more. . forty had ridden forth with Elgo, ten had returned-from whom he gleaned additional details of the story.

And he saw for himself the treasure trove, marvelling that this was but a third of Sleeth’s hoard. And it was all there, all that remained of the great finding-all, that is, but for a small silver horn taken by Bram the day of Elgo’s return, for the wee bairn had clutched the shiny trump, refusing to give it over to Mala for inspection; Elgo had laughed, saying that his son would be a better treasure hunter than any that had come before him-it was the first time that humor had visited Elgo since setting eye upon the hoard-and Bram was allowed to keep the small argent clarion.

And as Estor viewed the trove, Ruric hung back. For the Armsmaster was yet ashamed of his behavior upon the Longwyrm, though others had long since forgiven him-for his head had been nigh cracked open by the fall ’gainst the oar trestle, and he knew not nor did he even remember that which he had done. Even so, Ruric confessed to Estor that he still held to his basic beliefs: “. . Mark me, young bard, Dracongield carries a curse-all Dragonhoards bear curses-yet in spite o’ them, Men and heroes will ever covet Dragontroves, as well as other legendary treasures; and our success at slaying a Cold-drake will lead many a would-be paladin to gi’ over his life chasing after some will-o’-the-wisp fable, snatching ever after for some touch o’ glory. Aye, they all carry curses, be it Dracongield or faerygield or legendary artifact.

“But curse or no, still I should ha’e followed the lead o’ my Prince, instead o’ casting gold into the sea, or so ’tis they tell me I tried.”

And Estor spent long weeks closeted with his lute, at last coming to Aranor and asking to sing at the evening meal.

The hall was crowded unto near bursting that night, all waiting to hear the bard. Extra tables and benches had been placed ’round the room, each filled to capacity. Servants rushed thither and yon, filling mugs and goblets, bearing trays laden with food. Aranor sat at the head table, and at his side were Elgo and Elyn, as well as Arianne and Mala. Too, Kyla and Darcy and Elise were in attendance, and Ruric and Reynor and Pwyl and Arlan and Young Kemp and the others of those who had survived the Dragon-slaying quest.

And there came a time when Estor stood, and slowly the hall fell quiet as the bard softly tuned his lute. When all was silent, the young Man looked to King Aranor, receiving a nod to begin. And then it was that the lean poet gave voice to his song, Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom:

Down from the Steppes of Jord they came,

Their numbers, all told, forty-one,

Fire in their eyes, flame in their hearts,

Their spirits, ablazing, did burn.

Dragonboats skimming o’er the waves,

Wild Wolves running asea,

Swiftly o’er the sapphire tides,

Before them the wind did flee.

Down through a stony land they fared,

To come to a Dragon’s lair,

Long was the day, strong was the Sun,

Blackstone, ’tis Blackstone, beware.

Into the dark holt heart they strode,

Armed with a bright cunning plan.

Quick was their labor, swift their deeds,

Setting the trap of the Ban.

Soon all was ready, the time at hand,

And after Sleeth ten fared,

Seeking, searching, unwinding a maze,

Into the blackness they dared.

Deep in the darkness, sleeping on gold,

They found his ophidian lair,

Savage his waking, deadly his welcome,

Of ten there survived but a pair.

Swift did they fly, even though wounded,

Luring the Cold-drake behind.

Sure were their steps, running on arrows,

Even though one was half blind.

Into the chamber roared the grim Dragon,

The dashing brave warriors ahead,

Down came the canvas, letting in daylight,

To smite the vile Cold-drake dead.

Elgo, Prince Elgo, victorious,

His eye lost to Drake’s dire spume,

His cunning defeated a Dragon,

Elgo, Prince Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.

Gathering up the great treasure,

Back o’er the dark seas they came,

Mighty, the storm whelmed upon them,

Driving them toward the sea’s bane.

Into the roaring suck they were drawn,

Three ships bearing Dracongield,

Vile Hèlarms clutched upon them,

And many brave warriors were felled.

One Dragonboat escaped the vortex,

One ship fled the sea bane,

One ship won free of the Maelstrom,

Riding a wild hurricane.

Mayhap a curse lies on Dracongield.

Mayhap ’tis a saying to be spurned.

Yet think on this when considering:

Forty-one rode out, eleven returned.

And then there be the great Dragonships,

Each a Fjordsman’s pride;

Do there be a curse on Dracongield?

Four set forth, one survived.

Curse or no, a Dragon was slain,

A deed of derring-do,

The Men who did it will live forever,

Would that I had gone, too.

Yet none would have fared on this venture

Had there not been a daring plan,

Clever and bold to slay Dragon old,

The thought of a single Man.

Elgo, Prince Elgo, victorious,

Eye lost to Drake’s dire spume,

His cunning defeated a Dragon,

Elgo, Prince Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.

When the song came to its end, at first all in the hall was quiet, except for some who wept, and Estor’s heart fell. But then a thunderous cheering broke out, cups banging upon wooden table. And ’midst the roaring applause, Prince Elgo called the singer to him and placed upon his arm a golden torque, saying, “Make certain that Trent the Bard hears this song of yours, Estor.”

Glancing up from the rich reward, the young minstrel gazed upon the tear-wet cheek of the Prince. “But, Sire, Trent no longer lifts his voice in tale telling and saga singing. He has retired from the courtly life and has removed himself to a small cote. He no longer sings.”

“Nevertheless, Estor, carry it to his ears,” Elgo commanded, “for I would have him hear it-especially him-and he will know why.”

Puzzled, Estor bowed to the one-eyed Prince, promising that he would bear the tale, the song, unto Trent. And then the calls for another rendition of his ballade became too demanding to ignore, and so, saluting Elgo, Estor took up his lute and placed his back against the very stone pillar where another bard had once stood singing of the same Dragon, yet this time, none laughed at Elgo. And the young bard sang his song once more.

And again. .

And again. .

And. .

In fact, Estor sang his saga many times that night. And in the months and years and centuries to come, it would prove to be one of the most enduring ballades to be carolled and chanted by bards throughout Mithgar.

And from that first night forward and thereafter, Elgo became known as Sleeth’s Doom, a name to live in legend throughout time.

Deep in the Châkkaholt of Kachar word came as the dregs of winter stirred among the mountains of the Grimwall: Sleeth is dead. Blackstone is free.

And in this stone cavern, sitting in a side chair drawn up before the throne of Brak was Tarken the trader, bearer of the news. “Aye, DelfLord,” affirmed the aging Châk merchant, “that is the whole tale. Sleeth, they say, is dead. Slain by Elgo, Prince of the Vanadurin. Tricked the Drake into Adon’s light, he did, or so they say.”

“And you are certain about Blackstone?” Brak stroked his forked black beard, his dark eyes glinting in the phosphorescent glow of high-bracketed Châkka lanterns, the DelfLord no more than one hundred fifty years old, a powerful Dwarf in his prime.

“As certain as may be, what with the tales I heard. Blackstone is free, as far as any know,” responded Tarken, turning at the sound of footsteps ringing on stone as two sturdy Châk warriors strode into the chamber.

“Baran, Thork,” called out Brak, waving the pair inward, “I would have you hear the news Tarken brings.” And as the twain stepped unto the throne, the DelfLord growled, “These are my sons, Tarken.” Yet, in spite of his gruff tone, Brak’s eyes shone with pride.

And proud he should be, for the two were strong of limb and clear of gaze, and bore themselves with grace and power. Black were their hair and beards and eyes, and in this they were like unto their sire. Too, they carried an air of command about them, and Tarken knew that many would follow either one of them into the very jaws of Hèl if they but commanded it. Dressed in dark leathers ’neath black-iron chain shirts, each bore a thong-slung axe upon his back, ready for use. Baran was the elder of the two, some five years Thork’s senior. Yet as to which seemed to lead and which to follow, it was not certain.

Each bowed stiffly to the white-bearded trader clothed in shades of green, and Tarken got up from his seat and returned the courtesy.

“What is this I hear about Sleeth?” queried Baran.

“And Blackstone?” added Thork.

Tarken’s laughter barked forth. “Hah! The cubs are like unto their badger sire, Brak: right to the business at hand.”

“What else would you have, old trader,” grinned Brak, “pussyfooting Elves?”

Again, footsteps rang upon stone, bringing several Châkka into the chamber. Brak motioned everyone to a great table sitting in the alcove behind the throne, and quickly every seat was filled as more of the forked-bearded folk arrived in answer to the DelfLord’s summons. A hum of conversation murmured about the room, all talk centered upon the news carried in by the white-bearded merchant and his band of traders.

Finally, Brak, seated at the head of the table, held up his hands for quiet. As soon as silence reigned, he spoke: “I have called you all together so that we may speak upon the remarkable tidings borne to us by Tarken. When he has finished, then will we decide upon our course of action.” Brak motioned for the trader to speak.

Shoving back his chair, the white-bearded Dwarf stood at his place at the table. Slowly his eye swept across the council members, as if gauging their worth. Apparently satisfied, his rich voice spoke: “We were in the Realm of Aven, in the city of Dendor, trading jade carvings at the citadel, at the Aven court of Corbin, for it had been a year since Randall the old King died, and the period of mourning was over.

“While there, a bard came out of Jord, putting up at the Red Lion, where my own party was quartered. This bard sang for his supper and lodgings, and his song was of Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.

“Many were the rumors of Sleeth’s death, but most were flights of sheer fancy-tales saying such things as the Vanadurin Prince had strangled the Drake bare-handed, that Elgo had cut the Dragon down with a magic sword, that the Harlingar had caused the Cold-drake to choke on its own spit.

“Yet these many rumors had a common thread, for they all told that it was Elgo, the Vanadurin Prince, who had slain Sleeth. And now this bard-coming from Jord, from the Land of the Harlingar-now this bard sang of the slaying of Sleeth. . and, by Adon, Sleeth could have been brought down just as the bard claimed.

“Tricked into the Sun, the bard would have it, slain by the hand of Adon. The Ban itself doing the deed, once the Drake was exposed.

“Long did I talk with this minstrel, Estor by name, and he said that he had come from the court of Aranor, that he had spoken with Elgo and the survivors of that raid into Blackstone”-here at the mention of that ancient Châkkaholt there was a stir among the council members-“and that not only did they slay the Cold-drake, but they recovered the hoard as well.”

An uproar burst forth from the assembled Dwarves, some shouting cries of Looters! and Defilers! and others hammering fists in outrage upon the table.

Brak raised his hands for quiet, but it came not. Taking the axe from Baran, the DelfLord thunderously slammed the flat of the blade to the table, and an instant silence crashed into the room. For long moments Brak angrily eyed all in the chamber, then turned once more to Tarken, his words taking on a meaningful stress. “Was everything recovered?”

“Mayhap, DelfLord,” answered Tarken, “yet according to Estor the bard, a full two thirds of the trove lies at the bottom of the Boreal Sea, sucked down the churning funnel of the Great Maelstrom.”

Again an uproar broke out among the assembled Châkka, yet this time Brak let it run its course, while he sat in deep thought. After long moments he held up his hands, and turned to the white-bearded trader once more. “Had this bard any proof of what he claims?”

“I asked him the same, Lord Brak,” responded Tarken, “and he offered but two things: his sworn word as a bard, and a golden torque given over to him by Elgo. On his word as a bard we can depend, and I for one believe him.”

Many in the Council nodded in agreement, for the sworn word of a bard was legendary for its verity.

Brak raised his voice above the hum of conversation, garnering all attention. “Have you aught else to say, Tarken?”

The white-bearded trader shook his head No.

Brak’s eye then swept the chamber. “We have all heard the words of Tarken; can any add to what he has said?. . No?. . Then let us consider the issues that lie before us, and delve the course ahead.”

Long did the Dwarves review the matters at hand, debating key points, arguing, sometimes heatedly, over what to do. In the end, Brak summed up their deliberations: “These are the two key points: First, we must send a delegation to Jord, to the castle of Aranor, under a flag of negotiation to lay claim upon the trove. Second, while that mission goes forth, we need prepare to send a mission west, through Aven and Riamon and across the Crestan Pass through Rell and Rhone and into Rian to come at last unto Blackstone, to reclaim that ancient Châkkaholt and make of it a mighty Realm as of eld; in this we can call for the aid of our brethren in Mineholt North, in the Red Caves, and in mighty Kraggen-cor.”

Brak turned to Baran. “My son, I ask that you head the delegation into Jord. Seek out this Elgo, and press our claim.” Baran nodded sharply.

Brak then turned to Thork. “It is to you, my son, that I entrust the planning of the venture to Blackstone. It will take long to get all in readiness, yet I would have you arrange these matters. When the time comes, we will choose those who will take on the burden of the long march, but much must needs be planned ere we reach the point of selecting those who will rebuild the Châkkaholt of the Rigga.” Thork inclined his head in assent, though it was plain for all to see that he would rather accompany his brother in the legation to Jord.

It was early spring, and once again Elyn was out upon the plains flying Redwing, the hawk swooping, his calls skreeing o’er the wide prairie, the hunter seeking prey hidden down within the sea of greening grass blowing in the gentle breeze, the air still moist from the snowmelt and scented with the promise of new life. Upward spiralled the raptor, seeking new heights, Elyn’s heart urging the red hawk higher. Fluffy white clouds sailed serenely across the wide blue sky, and it seemed as if Redwing would mount up beyond even these. Yet of a sudden the bird stooped, wings folded, except for now and again when a flick of a tip guided the plummeting hunter toward a target Elyn could not see. And in a flurry of wings and feathers and talons, the hawk disappeared down within the winter-yellow veld.

And as the Warrior Maiden rode Wind toward the bird on its kill, her eyes spotted in the distance to the east a train of ponies wending westerly, some with riders, others laden with provisions. Swiftly gathering up Redwing, hooding the bird and transferring it to the hawking perch attached to the fore cantle of the saddle, snapping a short leash from the stand to the jesse on its right leg, Elyn scooped up the slain rabbit and lashed it to the leather thong holding the other three, then mounted Wind and spurred the mare toward the castle.

“By Adon, brother of mine, I think you are right: they are Dwarves! Ten of them!” Elyn stood with Elgo atop the eastern rampart and watched the pony train draw nigh.

“Hai!” crowed Elgo, “this good eye of mine be sharp after all. Would that father were here to see this as well.”

Once again Aranor was out of the Kingdom, this time on a mission to Naud to settle the border dispute with Halgar, eldest of Bogar, King now that his sire had been slain in battle with the Kathian Realm. And now was the time to press the Naudron, for they would rather not be trapped ’tween enemies on separate flanks, though it was not likely that Jord would ever join Kath in any venture, for the bad blood between them ran deep and red.

Ruric came to stand at Elgo’s side. “Dwarves, my proud Prince?” grunted the Armsmaster. “Aye, but why do ye suppose they would come knocking at our door? And look, they bear a grey negotiator’s flag at that.”

“Were I a Dwarf, then would I come to thank those who had liberated Blackstone, Old Wolf,” answered Elgo, a gleam of anticipation upon his countenance. “And if they would negotiate, then it be for the reward due us.”

“Hai roi! Let us hie to the throne room, my brother,” urged Elyn, her own spirits soaring, for she had never before seen a Dwarf, “and greet them in state.”

Swiftly and laughing and calling for a page, brother and sister scurried down the ladderway-Like children at play, thought Ruric, coming at a more sedate pace.

A herald stepped forward into the great hall, crying, “M’Lords and Ladies, Baran, son of Brak, DelfLord of Kachar, approaches with his retinue.”

Scowling, Baran and nine other Dwarves were escorted into the throne room, rays of sunshine pouring down brightly through the high windows. Therein assembled were Elgo, upon the royal seat, with Arianne at his side, and Elyn and Ruric and Reynor-now Captain of the Guard-in attendance. There too was Mala, who would miss no affair of state held in open court, especially an affair this curious, as well as Darcy and Elise and Kyla, attendants to the fair Arianne. Ranged along the perimeter of the throne room were twenty warriors of the Castleward, ready to deal with trouble should it arise, for these Dwarves, though allies in the past, bore arms and armor into the Keep of Jord.

So these are Dwarves, short but broad; strong, I wager. Elyn tried to look at ease, yet she noted that the Dwarven warriors had naturally and casually fallen into a group stance that would quickly shift into one of defense. By their scowls, not very friendly, though steadfast, I hear. I wonder how well they swing those axes slung across their backs.

As hastily rehearsed, Reynor stepped forward. “My Lord Baran, may I present the most puissant Elgo, Prince of Jord, Slayer of Sleeth, Liberator of Blackstone. I present as well Arianne, his Princess.”

A look of irritation passed over Baran’s visage, as if he would dismiss these tedious formalities. Yet warily, stiffly, the Dwarf bowed, his eyes never leaving Elgo’s scarred face.

The Prince stood, his hand on the pommel of his saber. “Welcome to Jord, my Lord Baran. Would that my sire were here to greet you, for he has long wished to meet a representative of your Realm. Our two Kingdoms would profit by an association, as you no doubt would agree; and if that is the matter you have come to discuss, we will host you till my sire’s return, for he would wish to deal personally with such an important concern. If you instead have come on another matter altogether, then I would hear what brings you unto Jord.”

The Dwarf stepped forward, the look in his eye grim. “We have come for that which is ours, Prince Elgo,” growled Baran, “the hoard of Sleeth the Orm.”

“What?” exploded Elgo, his good eye flashing a steely blue, his scars flaming red with anger. “You cannot be serious. The trove is ours, won by blood and death.”

“That the hoard cost you lives, I do not doubt, and so you and yours deserve a finder’s fee,” responded Baran, “yet I am most deadly serious when I say that we have come for that which is ours.” Baran gestured to his comrades. “But ere we speak further, we would see this hoard, for it is but an unconfirmed rumor that has brought us to your domain; for all we know, it be but a spurious tale.”

“Spurious? Pah! See it you shall,” gritted Elgo, ire burning in his face, “but not a single coin will you take back with you.” Elgo stalked down from the throne dais, leading the Dwarven delegation toward the treasury, Elyn, Ruric, and Reynor at his side, Reynor signalling the Castleward guardians to follow, Arianne, Mala, and the Ladies-in-waiting left behind.

Winding through the castle, down to the lower levels they fared, Prince and Princess, Dwarves and escort, coming at last to a well-guarded portal. At Elgo’s command, the barred portcullis was raised. They entered a wide room, and other guards stepped forward to meet them, one in particular, a giant of a Man bearing a great ring of keys. Again Elgo spoke, and the warden led them a way farther, taking up a lantern to light their steps. Finally, at the end of a short corridor, an iron door stood locked. Rattling through his keys, the Man slipped one into the well-oiled lock, turning it with a clack.

Silently, the portal swung open, and into a large room stepped the Dwarven emissaries with their Vanadurin escort. A set of floor-to-ceiling iron bars stood across the room midway, in the center of which was another locked portal. Beyond the bars gleamed the trove of Sleeth the Orm, jewels, gold, silveron, all casting glints of lantern light back unto the eyes of the beholders. The warden lit lamps hanging from wall brackets, and all of the glittering hoard could now be seen.

Forward crowded the Dwarves, fetching up against the barrier, staring through the bars at the great trove before them, their eyes wide, unbelieving, taking in the bulk, the mass, of the treasure. Long they looked, as if searching for something missing. Finally Baran growled, “Is this the whole of it?”

“Nay,” answered Elgo. “Much lies at the bottom of the Boreal Sea.”

“What I meant, Prince Elgo,” gritted Baran, “was: is this all that survived?”

“And what I meant, Lord Baran,” rejoined Elgo, fire rising in his voice, “is that if you would have any of Sleeth’s hoard, then by Hèl, I suggest that you mine the Maelstrom for it.”

“Pah!” spat Baran, his Dwarven temper rising. But ere he could say on-

“I would remind both o’ ye,” Ruric lashed out, “that a grey flag be borne in this matter. Let us step away from this cursed trove and speak wi’ reason upon it.”

Glowering at one another, Elgo and Baran reluctantly gave sharp nods of their heads, and the assemblage made their way back unto the great hall.

They sat at a great long table: Châkka arrayed along one side, Baran in the center; Vanadurin along the other side, Elgo midmost. Eye to eye they faced one another: Dwarves glaring at Harlingar, Harlingar glaring at Dwarves. At each end, grey flags sat upon standards.

Weapons were forbidden in this room, all being stacked upon tables in an antechamber.

As protocol demanded, the Dwarves were first to speak, Baran holding forth: “That Sleeth came and took Blackstone, there can be no doubt. That we owned Blackstone and the trove within, there can be no question either. Thus there can be no quarrel that the treasure is ours. Yet, we are Just in our dealings with others, hence we offer you a finder’s fee, a quarter of the trove, a fair price for your labors.”

“Pah!” snorted Elgo, but held his tongue, waiting for Baran to finish this ridiculous charade.

But Baran said no more, his case stated clear enough for anyone to comprehend, even an overbearing fool.

Seeing that the Dwarf was finished with his claiming and offering, Elgo responded: “We agree that Blackstone was yours, that the trove was yours, that Sleeth came and took it. But heed! You did not diligently try to regain that which was yours. Yet wait! Ere you claim that is not so, list to me: If the bards be right, then twice you strove to reclaim your former property; indeed, we saw evidence of one of your failed attempts-a great ballista with poisoned shafts, partly assembled, it seems, when Sleeth struck your people down. But long ago you abandoned your assays, hence, yielding over all claim to Blackstone and the treasure within to any who could succeed where you had failed.

“Well, I did not fail. And the treasure is mine. And so, if you would have a like treasure, then I say return to Blackstone and delve for it! I give you back the holt, for Men live not like moles underground!”

“You know not of which you speak,” shouted a red-bearded Dwarf to Baran’s right, “for thrice we-”

“Maht! [Silence!]” roared Baran in the hidden tongue, glaring at the one who had burst forth. “Nid pol kanar vo a Châkka! Agan na stur ka Dechâkka! [None shall know of that but the Châkka! Reflect no dishonor upon our ancestors!]”

Seething, the red-bearded Dwarf held his tongue and said no more, but his eyes burned at Elgo.

Mastering his own ire, Baran turned once more to Elgo. “I would ask you this, O Man: If a large burly thief knocked down an innocent citizen and stole a purse from him, and if you witnessed this and immediately slew the thief and recovered the purse, and if there was a gold piece inside the purse, then who would the gold belong to?”

“The citizen,” answered Elgo. “But-”

“Bear with me,” interrupted Baran. “Now what if you had not actually witnessed the crime, and instead the thief had managed to run around the corner ere you saw him, but you had heard the cry ‘Stop thief!’ and knew that this was the criminal, and then you slew him. Whose gold would it now be?”

“Still the innocent citizen’s,” answered Elgo, seeing where Baran’s argument was leading, but waiting his turn.

“And what if the thief managed to flee cross-country ere you slew him,” continued Baran, “yet from a reward poster you recognized him months later, then whose gold would it be?”

“Perhaps mine,” answered Elgo, smiling a toothy smile, “for who is to say that it was the very same gold. Most likely a thief would have spent the citizen’s gold by then, and this would be someone else’s, mayhap even the thief’s if he but labored for it.”

“That is not the case, Prince!” snapped Baran. “The whole world knows that Sleeth stole from us. The whole world knows that the treasure he took is the very same treasure you found. And he who refuses to return property stolen by a thief becomes a thief in turn!”

Elgo continued to grin, yet it was the smile of a predator. “Let me use your own words, O Dwarf: Suppose the thief moved onto the citizen’s land, into the citizen’s house. Suppose the citizen asked no one for help and gave up trying to retake his land and his house and his gold piece. Suppose the citizen died. Suppose his heirs abandoned his land and all the goods thereupon and made no attempt to regain it. Suppose more than a thousand years pass and no heir ever lays claim to the ancestral place, no heir attempts to evict the thief, no heir posts a reward, no heir ever cries ‘Stop thief!’ Suppose that later you come across this abandoned land, and slay the evil occupant, and searching, find the abandoned gold piece.

“Now I ask you, Lord Baran, whose gold is it? Whose land is it? I caution you to answer carefully, for if you say that it belongs to the heirs, then all the Lands we now occupy, these Steppes, your undermountain Realms, all these Lands once belonged to someone else, someone who abandoned their claims ages apast and drifted on. Yet you would have their heirs own it.

“But I tell you here and now that if they be abandoned, then those that find them and claim them and defend them and hold them are the true owners.”

Anger flared up in Baran’s eyes. “By Adon, we did not abandon that land! Nor the treasure upon it!”

“Then you lost it in War,” said Elyn, speaking for the first time. “Heed me! Only the diligent can show that they did not abandon their claim, yet we all know that you have not been diligent. But diligent or no, Lands lost in War go to the victor. And just as you lost Blackstone to Sleeth, oh so long ago, so did Sleeth lose it to Elgo but months past. From vanquished to victor go the spoils, and that includes the long-lost treasure, for in this War, Elgo was victorious.”

“But the spoils of War are to be returned to those wrongfully deprived of their property,” shot back Baran. “Else there be no justice, no honor.”

“Then, my dear Dwarf,” answered Elyn, “I suggest that you return that which you took from the Rutcha during your Wars with them.”

At these words, many of the Dwarves’ faces flushed with anger, and some growled and futilely reached for their axes, forgetting that they resided upon a table in the antechamber. “War with the Ukhs will never be ended!” spat Baran.

‘When the shoe is on the other foot,” Elyn rejoined, “oft’ it hurts painfully.”

“This be not the same”-Baran’s voice was low and dangerous-“for our claim be Just. In honest War between honorable foes, spoils go to the winner, and the loser has no cause for claim.”

Elyn immediately responded: “Then be grateful, Lord Baran, that my brother has seen fit to return Blackstone unto you, for if he desired it for his own, then by your own words you would have no claim to it.”

“Did you not hear me, Woman?” Baran’s eyes flashed in rage. “Sleeth was not an honorable foe. He had no claim to Blackstone. And if you say that by defeating Sleeth, Elgo’s claim to stolen property is somehow made legitimate, then you are saying that Elgo stands at the same level of honor as Sleeth.”

Elgo ground his teeth in ire. “What I tell you, Dwarf, is that you must actively pursue a claim for it to stand the test of ownership. Your kind did not; for more than fifteen hundred years you lay no claim, hence all right of dominion was abandoned centuries ago by you and yours. Thus, whether or not Sleeth was an honorable foe is moot!”

Angrily, Baran stood, his fists clenched. Opposite, Elgo got to his feet as well. And so stood all the Dwarves and Vanadurin, the very air seething with hostility.

“I will deliver your message, Prince Elgo”-Baran’s voice was fell-“though these words of truth, my words, will go with it. Blackstone was ours, the treasure was ours, until stolen by Sleeth. You now hold that which was ours and refuse to hand it over to the true owners. You are sung of in a hero’s song, yet you have no honor.”

Rage flared in Elgo’s eye, and his scars again burned red with wrath, and he would have sprung across the table had Ruric not grabbed his arm and restrained him, barking, “They be here under a grey flag.”

Angrily, Elgo shook off Ruric’s grip. “And who will you deliver my answer to, Dwarf?”

“To my sire, Brak, DelfLord of Kachar, Rider,” answered Baran, quivering in outrage.

“Then save your breath, Dwarf,” hissed Elgo, “for I will deliver the message myself.” And he spun on his heel and stalked from the great hall.

So too did the Dwarves storm from the negotiating room, snatching up their axes, boiling outward from the castle to the stables, saddling ponies to fare north, unwilling to spend even one night in the care of the Harlingar.

And from the smithy that night came the clanging of hammer upon chisel, anvil ringing with labored strokes as Elgo whelmed upon Dragonhide, preparing a suitable gift for Brak, DelfLord of Kachar.