Dragondoom

CHAPTER 20

Early Spring, 3E1602

[This Year]

Dawn was breaking to a swirling mist as the column of Vanadurin cantered out from the castle. In the lead rode Elgo, the ten survivors of the Dragon-slaying raid following in his wake. Just behind and to Elgo’s right rode Reynor, spear-lance couched in stirrup cup, the attached flag lank in the ground-hugging fog, the cloth damply furled about the standard, the white horse rampant upon green field not showing. On Elgo’s left, riding Flint, Ruric fared, the Armsmaster deep in thought. Atop the ramparts stood Elyn and Arianne, the latter with Bram in her arms, all watching the small band set forth, Elyn remaining behind to guide the Realm until either Aranor or Elgo returned. And as the column rode out of sight in the mist, Arianne whispered to Bram and then waved, but whether or not the farewell was answered or even seen, she could not say, for the grey fog had swallowed up the Men.

The morning wore on, and the Sun at last burned away the field mist. And as the orb rose higher, so did the fire in Elgo’s eye. Rage seethed in his heart, for he could not set aside the image of Baran demanding that the Vanadurin give over the hard-won treasure that the Dwarves had abandoned centuries apast.

Elgo’s thoughts were incandescent: Thirty died for that gold, all of them heroes, all of them Sons of Harl, the blood of Harl: Harlingar. Nay! ’Twas more than thirty, for steadfast Fjordsmen died as well. And now these Dwarves would set their deaths aside and have them be for nought.

“Damn all Dwarves and their greed!” Elgo burst out aloud.

Ruric, at the Prince’s side, cleared his throat.

“Say what you would, Old Wolf,” growled Elgo, turning his face leftward and looking at the Armsmaster. “You’ve been silent too long as it is.”

“I be reminded o’ a young impatient lad in a clearing in a thicket long ago, hammering away at staves wi’ a fledgling Warrior Maid,” responded Ruric. “’Twas then I told ye that pride be the downfall o’ many, and that ’twould be yer own undoing one day lest ye learn to control yer prideful temper, yer prideful ways.”

“By Hèl, Ruric,” exploded Elgo, “is that what you think this is all about? These Dwarves demanding our treasure? Pride? The pride of a Prince?”

“Nay, my Lord,” answered Ruric, undaunted by Elgo’s outburst. “The Dwarves be wrong, make no mistake, for they abandoned that accursed gold long ago. E’en so, ’twould serve them right if we merely gave it to them; then ’twould be theirs to deal wi’ the bane o’ it. Nay, my proud Prince, ’tis not the Dwarves’ demand I fret o’er; ’tis instead yer temper concerns me. Let not yer prideful ways gain the upper hand in the days ahead, for if they do, then I tell ye now as I ha’e told ye in the past, yer temper will surely carry ye to defeat.”

Elgo rode in silence for a long while ere responding to Ruric’s words: “Old Wolf, mayhap you be right about my ‘prideful ways,’ my ‘prideful temper,’ and mayhap you even be right about a bane on the trove, though I misdoubt it, but by damn, these Dwarves do get in my craw, and I’ll rot in Hèl ere I let them have aught of Sleeth’s hoard.”

Ruric said nought in return, remaining silent as he and the other survivors accompanied the smoldering Prince across the great grasslands of Jord, the Armsmaster hoping that five uneventful days of riding would be enough to cool off Elgo ere they reached the Dwarvenholt of Kachar.

The column fared easterly for miles as the Sun rode upward across the sky and through the zenith, dropping now toward the western horizon. The land about them slowly changed from prairie to rolling downs, a presaging of the foothills and mountains to come. Now and again an awakening thicket stood across the way, the saplings beginning to green with the quickening of spring, buds slowly swelling, but leaves would not appear for another fortnight or two, depending upon the strength of the Sun. Still, nestled among the grasses, tiny blue flowers peeked out through the winter-yellow blades, heralding the arrival of a new season of growth that would continue until the frosts of fall.

Night found the Harlingar camped alongside a thickset bare-branched coppice, the horses picketed, a ward posted, and a small fire burning to press back the shadows. They had covered some forty miles of open land that day: a goodly ride, even for the Harlingar.

As they sat about the blaze, again Elgo spoke of the Dwarves’ claim: “I say to all of you here and now, these grasping Dwarves shall not lay one finger upon any part of the treasure we won. It is ours to do with as we agreed ere we set forth upon our quest. As soon as it is properly assayed, we will divide it into a hundred shares: each of the survivors will receive a share; each of the families of those slain will receive a share; ten shares will go to the Fjordsmen, for in bearing us on our mission, they lost much; the rest will go into the treasury of the Realm of the Jord. But none of it, not a copper, will find its way into the greedy hands of these gluttonous cave dwellers.”

“My Lord,” spoke up one of the Vanadurin, Brade, a blond youth of twenty years who hailed from northern Jord, “these Dwarves, might not they ride to War with us o’er the Dracongield?”

“Hah!” snorted Bargo, a red-faced ox of a Man, yellow-bearded, yellow-braided, leaping to his feet and prancing about the campfire, head wobbling and eyes rolling and hands shuddering as if he were a frightened rank beginner attempting to ride a jolting steed. “Ride to War on what?. . Ponies?”

Bargo’s jobbernowled pantomime brought forth great guffawing laughter among the Jordians, for the thought of short, forked-bearded folk, charging apace upon horselings was too much to bear in silence. Even somber Ruric laughed, his first in many a month.

Midmorning of the second day, the column of Harlingar sighted, caught up with, and passed the grey-flagged, pony-mounted Dwarven emissaries, also making their way easterly, returning to Kachar. As Elgo’s Warband rode past, the Dwarves glared at these thieving Riders, receiving like glares in return. . that is, until Bargo rode alongside the pony train: The oxlike warrior plucked his spear from its sheath and spurred the mount forward, leaning far back over the cantle, with his legs thrust out akimbo. Unsteadily waving his lance in the air while squealing “Ooo! Ooo!” and bouncing all over his saddle, Bargo went jouncing past the Dwarves. The Vanadurin exploded in laughter, while the Dwarven warriors growled in anger, knowing that they had somehow been insulted by this pack of looters, yet not divining the precise meaning of the gibe.

On the third day, the great grey chain of the Grimwall Mountains rode up over the horizon, looming dark and ominous in the distance, though most peaks were still capped with snow, and would remain so until the height of summer. And all that day the column wended up through the foothills, now faring southeasterly. They were aiming for Kaagor Pass, the very slot where nearly four years past, Elgo had slain Golga the Troll.

That evening they camped some fifteen miles from the foot of the col. The next day they would press hard to ride completely through the gap among the peaks; for even though it was spring, still the nights were too chill to fare across the range unless there were a driving need-even in the Kaagor Pass, which cut low through the mountains, remaining open nearly all year long.

At the urging of the Men, Elgo told of his deed: “I had always heard that Trolls were nearly unkillable, though there are tales of wondrous Elven weapons slicing through their stone-like hides as warm knives cutting through butter. And though I had no Elven blade, still, it seemed to me that there must be other ways of slaying these behemoths. So, I rode to the gap in the summer of ninety-nine to set a watch over Golga and see if I could divine a means of ridding the world of his menace.

“Finding him was easy, for I could ride up to his very doorstep as long as the Sun was in the sky. But I had to be long gone from the entrance to his cave ere night fell, else he would sniff me out and run me down. . and Shade and I would fill his cooking pot for a number of meals.

“There was a great round boulder that he used as a door to his lair during the day. I could tell from the scoring on the stone that at night he rolled it aside while hunting for game-deer, mountain goats, wild sheep, a stray merchant train, or other tasty tidbits-and near morning he would return to his hole, haling the great rock back in place.

“For several days I scouted out the lay of the land, seeking a way to slay the monster. His cave bored into a sheer stone bluff rising up the mountain side. Fifty or sixty feet above was a wide ledge, where I thought I might hide to get a look at Golga. And it was while I was thinking on this that my eye fell upon his door, and suddenly the plan came to me. And for the next fortnight of days, I labored as I’ve never labored before.

“Finally, all was ready, and I used that day and the next to hunt deer, slaying three all told: the bait for my trap.

“When night next descended and Golga rolled aside his rock, he found waiting for him three gutted deer, right on his front stoop. He squatted on the spot, sniffing his next meal, perhaps checking for poison.

“But it wasn’t to the meat that he should have been looking for the trap; instead it was above him, for ’twas then that I rolled a mighty boulder off the ledge to come crashing down atop him. Hai, crunch! went his bones, for e’en a Troll cannot withstand a blow such as that.

“Well, lads, that was the end of Golga, squashed flat ’neath the boulder that it took me the previous fourteen days to maneuver into position, a labor that nearly killed me with the doing of it.” Elgo’s glittering eye swept across the admiring faces ’round the campfire. “Be there any questions?”

“Did you explore his cave, my Lord?” asked Roka, stroking his red beard, his own blue eyes glistering in the firelight.

“I did, and a fouler den you would not wish to see,” answered Elgo, shuddering with the memory of it. “Littered with bones, it was. . bones of all types. . things I do not wish to remember. Too, there were crude utensils, and a bed of hides. But nothing of worth. . Ah fie, let us speak no further upon it, for it was a most vile place, a place I would rather forget.”

The next morning the Harlingar rode up into Kaagor Pass, and near the crest they stopped and dismounted, and Elgo pointed out the Troll’s den. Before the black opening lay two halves of a great boulder, split in twain from its shattering fall. Some fifty or so feet above could be seen the lip of the ledge Elgo had used in the slaying of the great Ogru. To one side of the dark hole another boulder stood: Golga’s door. Reynor stepped to the split rock, marvelling at the size of it. How one man could have rolled it into position along the ledge above, the young warrior could not imagine.

“Levers, Reynor,” Elgo answered his Guard Captain’s question. “Poles and wedges I used, rolling it a foot at a time, setting wedges to keep it from rolling back. When I first espied it, ’twas already standing along the ledge, at that far end. . see. . yes, there. Had the rock not been there to begin with, then there would have been no way that I could have done it.

“And when I actually levered it off to come down upon the Troll, I thought that I would split a gut, for it would not move at first. Yet at last I pried it loose, and down it came. See, there is one of Golga’s own bones still trapped under.”

Reynor peered at the knob of a huge bone protruding from beneath the fractured rock, perchance a thigh, and a puzzled look came over his features. “Hola! How is that these bones do not crumble under Adon’s Ban?”

“Troll bones and Dragonhide, lad!” exclaimed Ruric, who had been standing beside Elgo. “Just where d’ye think that oath comes from? I mean, folk don’t say ‘Troll bones and Dragonhide’ just to be clever. ’Tis from the fact that both Troll bones and Dragonhide be such that the Ban holds no sway o’er them. Though his flesh crumbled under the Sun, these bones o’ Golga the Troll ha’e resisted the Ban for three years now, and will continue to do so. . just as will Sleeth’s hide!”

Elgo quickly glanced toward his horse, Shade, at the naming of Sleeth, though the Armsmaster saw it not. And Reynor, nodding, asked, “Well if they survived, where are the rest of Golga’s bones?”

“No doubt some be still trapped ’neath,” answered Ruric, squatting down and peering under the shattered boulder. “But I deem that those exposed ha’e been gnawed away by rats and such.”

“How even a rat could bite upon dead Troll is beyond me, Old Wolf,” growled Elgo, remembering the stench.

“Death’s scavengers make no distinction, my Lord,” responded Ruric, “for all be grist for their mills, be it Man, Troll, Elf, Dwarf-”

At the mention of Dwarf, Elgo cast a look back at the way they had come, as if seeking to see whether or not Baran was in sight. “Let us begone from here, for I have business with the DelfLord of Kachar.”

And so, down from the pass they came, eleven Vanadurin, the battle standard of the Harlingar snapping in the breeze.

Near noontide of the next day, the fifth since setting out from the castle, the survivors of the raid on Blackstone rode out of a thick stand of silver birch, the last trees of an upland forest bordering the foot of a wide vale cupped by towering mountains. Before them stood a Realmstone, marking the boundary between the Châkkaholt of Kachar and the northeasternmost marge of Aven, the Dwarven obelisk pointing skyward, its runes plain for all to see. They had come down from Kaagor Pass, having ridden through the great chain of the Grimwall Mountains, and turned rightward, southwesterly, and had fared across the high wold and through the wooded land thereupon, the trees still clothed in winter dress, though buds burgeoned for spring. And now they had come nigh unto their goal, for the iron gates of Kachar stood at the upper end of the vale.

“There it be, my Lord,” growled Ruric, pointing. High up, where the floor of the northward running valley met the wall of the westerly mountain, stood a black opening. Down from this gape, a tradeway wended, disappearing from sight now and again, hidden by shallow folds in the land, only to reappear and continue southerly, until at last it was gone from the vale and into the upland forest.

“I see it, Armsmaster,” returned Elgo, his one eye alight with fire. Spurring Shade, forward rode the Prince, followed by his entourage, the column riding out from the woods and canting down the slope and onto the open land.

Down across the vale they fared and up again, coming to the roadway leading unto the gates, turning their horses along this route.

Brak stood at the worktable, a leathern apron over his clothes. Small tools were scattered before him, and in his hands he held a work of silver, inspecting it closely. His concentration was broken by a Châk herald rushing into the chamber, the youth’s face flush with the news he bore. Setting aside the silverwork, Brak turned and motioned the herald forward.

“DelfLord”-the messenger stepped before Brak-“Men ride horses within the vale, eleven be their number, bearing the flag of Jord, it seems.”

“Hah!” barked the black-haired Châkka leader, pulling the work apron from him. “They come to arrange for the return of our Drake-stolen property. Assemble the Chief Captains in the Hall of State. Thork, too. We shall greet these visitors properly.”

As the herald rushed through the doorway, Brak called out: “Baran and the others ride with the Men, do they not?”

The messenger stopped and turned. “Nay, DelfLord, they do not. The Men come alone.” Pausing to see if there were aught else Brak would say, then seeing that there was not, the herald rushed on.

Puzzled at this unexpected news, Brak stepped to the wall where hung his black-iron mail and tunic and raiment of state, a thoughtful look upon his face.

Hooves ringing upon polished granite, up and onto the great open foregate courtyard rode the Vanadurin, fetching up against a low set of wide, broad steps leading up to another broad stretch of polished granite passing through the mighty iron gates, the portals themselves opened wide, pressing against the stone flank of the mountain towering above. Down stepped Dwarves, some taking the reins of the steeds, others standing by to greet the Harlingar. Dismounting, the Vanadurin slung shields across their backs, and girted themselves with sabers and long-knives, taking on the aspect of armed and armored warriors.

“I would speak with Brak,” announced Elgo bruskly, un-lashing a roll of cloth from behind his saddle. “Tell him that Elgo, Prince of Jord, Slayer of Sleeth and Liberator of Blackstone would have words with him.”

As they turned to enter the Dwarvenholt, “Steady, my proud Prince,” said Ruric in a low voice, casting a meaningful glance Elgo’s way. But if the one-eyed Prince heard him, he gave no indication of it.

Up the steps the Vanadurin were led and through the iron gate, past axe-wielding and crossbow-bearing Dwarven sentries. Out of the noontide brightness and into the shadowed holt marched the Harlingar with their escort, into the blue-green phosphorescent light of Dwarven lanterns bracketed along the carven stone corridors. Down into this maze they stepped, striding toward the Hall of State, where awaited Fate.

They were escorted into a great chamber. Dwarven warriors were assembled within, two hundred or so, each arrayed in black-iron chain mail, each bearing some type of weapon: back-slung, double-bitted, rune-marked axes; warhammers and shields; light crossbows and quivers of quarrels. Helms were on their heads, but unlike the simple leather and steel caps of the Harlingar, with their horsehair gauds or birds’ wings, the Dwarven helms bore fanciful metal figures of legendary beasts, or metal wings aflare.

An open corridor through the Dwarven ranks stretched before the Vanadurin, leading across white marble flooring and to the throne dais, where sat Brak upon a massive and ornate chair of state, carven with gilded symbols. Leaning against the left arm of the throne, a great black axe stood, its iron beak grounded against the dais. To Brak’s right stood Thork, his youngest son, the warrior’s arms folded across his chest.

Ruric glanced at Elgo, and the Prince’s scars flared scarlet at this display of might. But ere the Armsmaster could say a calming word, Elgo strode into the jaws of Destiny, his hard pace ringing upon the marble, his hands unwrapping the bundle he bore even as he walked. Behind him advanced ten Vanadurin.

At last the cloth came free, and Elgo hurled it aside; and now he held in his hands a great swath of iridescent material: Dragonhide! Marching up to the dais, he stopped; and he held the glittering material above his head and turned about in a slow circle so that all might see. And there came a gasp from the assembled Dwarves, for though none there had ever seen the hide of a Drake, they knew instantly what it was they beheld. Yet they were puzzled, for to all intents and purposes it appeared to be a great bag that this Prince held, hanging down from his high-held hands unto his shoulders; it even had a drawstring.

Facing Brak once more, Elgo lowered the Dragonhide and untied the drawstring and pulled open the top, and turned the bag upside down. Out dropped a single small gold piece, to strike the stone floor ching! and roll to the base of the throne dais, hitting against the foot of the rise tink! to fall face down and lie gleaming in the phosphorescent blue-green glow of Dwarven lanterns.

His scars flaring red with rage, Elgo held the Dragonhide in one hand above his head and spoke to Brak in a loud voice so that all in the hall could hear his words: “ A purse such as this you must make ere you can fill your treasuries with Dracongield; yet beware, for only the brave may pluck this cloth from its loom.” And he hurled the Dragonhide purse down at Brak’s feet and spun about, striding for the exit.

Behind him, Brak roared in fury, snatching up his axe and leaping to his feet, hurling himself toward this arrant treasure stealer. Elgo whirled about, and suddenly his saber was in his right fist, and his shield upon his left arm.

Blang! Axe met shield. Shing! Saber skittered along black-iron chain mail.

Dwarves surged forward, some cocking crossbows.

So too did the Vanadurin take up weapons, falling into a battle square, though they were outnumbered twenty to one.

“Hold!” roared Brak, stepping away, his features black with wrath, but never taking his eyes from the Man before him. “Foul Elgo, Thief Elgo is mine!”

Muttering curses, the Châkka stepped back, blood in their eyes, weapons ready.

The Vanadurin remained in their square.

Now Brak addressed Elgo, his voice spitting in fury: “Come, Jeering Elgo, taste iron.”

Elgo’s scars burned bright with rage, and he leapt forward, saber slashing.

Dring! Brak parried with the helve of his axe, and countered with a forward thrust of the cruel iron axe-beak Dlank! caught by Elgo’s shield.

Shang! Chang! Steel skirled on steel, tortured metal crying out in agony from the fury of those that wielded the weapons. ’Twas axe ’gainst saber and shield, Dwarf ’gainst Man. Brak grasped the black oaken helve with a two-handed grip, right hand high near the blade, left low near the haft butt. And he used the helve to parry Elgo’s saber Thak! while stabbing in return with the steel beak Dank! or shifting his grip to lash the cutting edge in wide sweeping blows Clang! Blang! Elgo fending the axe, slipping the blade along his own.

Dwarves yielded back as the battle raged to and fro before the throne dais, as first one and then the other of the combatants would press the attack; even the battle square of the Vanadurin gave ground before the duel, the Harlingar moving as a unit. Blang! Dlang! Châkka shouted out encouragement, as did the riders, yet neither Brak nor Elgo took notice, fighting on in grim silence.

Quick Elgo bore the brunt of the DelfLord’s blows upon his now-battered shield. Dlang! His reach with the saber was longer, and he pressed Brak back with thrusts and cuts. Shang! Ching!

Steel met steel Chang! Clang! Brak yielding ground. Elgo circled rightward, his saber weaving a swift net of slashing death, a net caught upon a helve of oak, a helve set with a soft brass strip to catch edged weapons. “Châkka shok! Châkka cor! [Dwarven axes! Dwarven might!]” cried Brak, venting the ancient battle cry, echoed by the assembled Dwarves: Châkka shok! Châkka cor! Elgo fought on in silence, but Reynor cried “Hál Jordreich!” giving tongue to the Vanadurin voice, though Ruric and the others watched mute.

Chank! Chang! Both warriors now bled, yet their weapons screamed upon one another. Elgo lunged leftward, avoiding a blow, thrusting upward at the same time. Yet his heel came down upon the glittering golden coin lying in the floor, and his foot skidded out from under him. And as he was falling: Chunk! the axe buried itself in Elgo’s rib cage, blood flying wide. Yet at the very same time, Shkkk! the saber burst through the Dwarven mail, thrusting through Brak’s heart.

The DelfLord fell dead at Thork’s feet.

The axe falling from him, blood gushing uncontrollably, Elgo struggled up and staggered a step or two and collapsed among the Vanadurin, rushing forward to aid him. Ruric knelt on the floor and took the Prince in his arms. Elgo’s eye fluttered open and he looked at the Armsmaster, the youth’s mouth working as if trying to say something. Ruric put his ear next to Elgo’s lips. “Pride,” whispered the Prince, and then he was gone.

The hall exploded in rage, Dwarves surging forward to put an end to these Lord-slayers and looters. But Thork stood up from his dead sire and hurled a raging scream above all others, stepping to one side and whelming the flat of his axe against a stone column BLANG! And the Châkka Captains jerked to a halt, eyes now locked upon the son, leader until the return of Baran.

Thork ground his teeth in rage, and his eyes burned upon the Vanadurin. Thork’s voice grated forth, iron in his words: “Get thee hence unto thy Land and ready thyself for War, for we are coming.” Gesturing at Elgo’s body-“And take that offal with you.”

“Yaaaahhh!” With a wordless yell, Bargo sprang forward murder in his eye, his massive hands raised like claws, claws to rend Thork apart.

Zzzaakk! A crossbow bolt buried itself in Bargo’s chest, the oxlike warrior dead even as he struck the stone, his arms and claw-bent hands still outstretched to grasp Thork, falling mere inches short.

Thork looked down at this dead thief at his feet, the Dwarf saying not a word. All about the Vanadurin came the metallic rustle of black-iron chain mail as cocked crossbows were raised, quarrels aimed at every heart.

“Hold!” Ruric’s voice split the silence, the Armsmaster still kneeling, still clasping Elgo unto him. “We shall take our slain wi’ us, back unto our Land. Yet list to me, Dwarves: Ye need not come unto Jord for War, for instead the Vanadurin will meet ye upon the fields at yer very gates. Prepare yersel’s, O Dwarves, for ’tis we who be coming to avenge our dead.”

Ruric stood and hoisted Elgo over his shoulders, blood running asplash down the Armsmaster to splatter upon the white stone floor. Young Kemp and Arlan raised up Bargo between them, and all the Harlingar started for the exit, while before them a herald cleared the way.

And as they came out upon the steps and down unto their horses, behind them a dolorous bell began clanging out a slow, deep death knell, telling one and all that Brak was dead: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom! And everywhere that Dwarves heard the sound they cast hoods over their heads, for they were in deep mourning. Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!

Weeping, the Harlingar tied the bodies across horses: Elgo’s corpse upon Shade; Bargo’s upon his steed, Runner. And the desolate yet enraged Vanadurin mounted up and rode away from the iron gates of Kachar, and all the while behind them a bodeful bell tolled death: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!