Dragondoom

CHAPTER 24

Late Spring, Early Summer, 3E1602

[This Year]

The Sun was passing through the zenith when the Host of Jord debouched from Kaagor Pass, coming down into the woods along the mountain slopes. Out before the army, scouts rode among the trees, faring to flank and fore and sweeping wide, ascertaining that the way was clear, free from ambush and trap.

Nearly five thousand strong was Aranor’s Legion now, for other musterers had overtaken the Host along its overland journey, swelling the ranks by some five hundred more. And this army, riders all, followed in the wake of the scouts and passed among the trees of the upland forest.

Leagues behind, still faring to come unto the pass, rolled the supply waggons, a caravan escorted by a Warband, for the cargo they bore-food and grain-was precious, and it would not do to have it fall into enemy hands. Even so, the Host of Aranor carried enough provisions, in saddlebags and on packhorses, for both Man and steed to exist for a week or more ere the lagging train caught up to the main body.

And even father behind came the cattle drove. The herd would not fare up through Kaagor Pass, but would remain instead in the grass of the foothills upon the northern side of the Grimwall, the stock being slaughtered and dressed out and borne across the range and to the Host as needs dictated.

But it was not upon the trailing supplies that Aranor’s mind dwelled. Instead, his attention was focused on the land before the Host, for in that direction lay the enemy. And his eye kept straying to the flanks, where could come sudden attack. Yet little did he see, for in this place the woodland was thick with pine, and needled greenery barred any distant view, though now and again he caught a glimpse of one of his own outriders.

And through this deep wood rode the Legion, a great mounted army faring among the trees: pine yielding to aspen and silver birch and other upland trees, some now putting forth their new green leaves, the winter dress giving way before the quickening season. Often they would stop and rest the steeds, for the land was canted, and full of folds, and negotiating the terrain was taxing on the horses. Too, they had to wend a twisting course to pass through the crowded timberland.

And the Sun slipped down the sky as they wound among the pines, the day lengthening the shadows behind. Even so, it was not full dusk when the Host came unto the slopes falling down into the vale whose northerly reach rose up to meet Kachar. And Aranor and his commanders sat ahorse in the edges of the upland forest and peered toward the great iron gates of the Dwarvenholt. Yet they could not tell if the portals were open, for the mountainside had fallen into shadow, and no light shone forth from the holt of their enemies. A sudden shiver shook Aranor’s frame, but whether from the chill of the mountains creeping down the slopes, or whether from some unknown portent, he could not say.

As dawn brightened in the sky and the day came full upon the land, the Jordian King and his commanders stood at the edge of the stand of silver birch. Behind them an army encamped within the forest, its perimeters warded by pickets. To the fore a gentle sward sloped down to the foot of an open vale, a vale running northward and rising up to collide with the harsh granite of the Grimwall, the dark stone of the mountains bursting upward from the fettering rock below. And in the distance now could be seen the closed iron gates of Kachar.

“I like it not, Lord,” muttered the small, wiry, fox of a Man to Aranor’s left, his eyes sweeping up the length of the valley. “It is strait, and they will hold the high ground, and our horses needs must charge upslope. It will slow us, and we cannot bring all our force to bear.”

“Aye, Vaeran,” replied Aranor, his own look troubled. “That much I can see.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Reachmarshal Einrich, swinging his bulk to face Vaeran. “They will be afoot, without our mobility, hence will not have great advantage in that matter.”

“Aye, there is that. Still, I mislike it,” growled Vaeran. “Anytime a horse be slowed, it is not to our avail. Anytime a field be strait, flanking comes hard.”

“Say again what weaponry they will wield, m’Lord,” called Marshal Roth, his northern accent all but unnoticeable.

Aranor turned an eye to Ruric. “Armsmaster?”

“Axes, warhammers, crossbows,” replied Ruric, “those be the weapons we ha’e seen. Too, some bear shields, and wear black chain.”

“Hah!” burst out Einrich again. “Horse-driven lance will make short shrift of shield and chain”-his countenance darkened-“but these crossbows, they be another thing.”

“As we planned, Einrich, our own bowmen will deal with them.” Reachmarshal Richter’s voice was soft, yet there was steel in his words.

“Look, Lord,” hissed Marshal Boer, “there be activity at the badger’s den.”

In the distance, from a side postern high upon the stone of Kachar came a troop of Dwarves, clambering down a carven set of narrow steps leading to the granite forecourt, unslinging weapons and taking up a stance before the great iron gates, a guard of honor.

“Methinks this be their signal, Lord,” gritted Ruric.

“Aye, mayhap you are right, Armsmaster,” answered Aranor. “Call Reynor unto me, for it be time to speak to the grasping foe.”

The Dwarven scouting party returned via a secret gate into the halls of Kachar. Wending through a labyrinthine set of tunnels, they came swiftly to the War Chamber. There, ringed about a large circular table, awaited the Chief Captains of the Châkka Host, DelfLord Baran part of the circle, Prince Thork at his side.

“We count nearly five thousand of the thieves, Lord Baran,” spake the Chief Scout, a young black-bearded Dwarf dressed in the mottled leathers that made him and his band all but invisible in woodland as well as upon slopes of stone. “Spears, bows, sabers, long-knives they bear. Some have shields much the same as that which Jeering Elgo bore.” A rustle of metal sounded as Châkka shifted at mention of this name. “All wear chain. All are mounted.

“They camp within the Silverwood on the east slope, here”-the scout traced a rough circle upon a spread map-“and sentries ward their flanks.”

“You are certain of their numbers, Dakan.” Thork’s comment was more of a statement than a question.

“Aye, Prince Thork”-Dakan’s words brooked no doubt-“we counted them as they fared through the pass, again as they came forth, and then tracked them to the grounds of their camp.”

Thork grunted his acknowledgement, turning to Baran. “Five thousand they number, and we but three.”

“Just so,” growled Baran. “But three thousand or two thousand or just one, still shall we whelm these brigands to earth. Still shall we gain that which is rightfully ours.”

Muttered oaths of affirmation rumbled ’round the table.

Baran cleared his throat as if to say more, yet a black-mailed warrior entered the hall, his hard strides ringing upon the stone as he purposefully made his way to Baran’s side and softly spoke to the DelfLord.

Baran stood. “A crowned Rider and a standard bearer near the gate. It would seem that they come to parley. The dance of Death has begun.”

Baran strode from the chamber, Thork at his side, as sound erupted behind them and warriors scrambled to follow.

The Dwarven gate warders stood before the great iron portal and watched as two riders cantered up the vale: one on a flame-red steed, the Man wearing a crown; the other sat astride a grey and bore a flag, a white horse rampant upon a field of green. As they neared the gate, the flag bearer blew a note upon a black horn, the sound flat and commanding. Still some distance away, they reined their mounts to a halt, and again the note of command sounded from the horn.

In that moment, DelfLord Baran and Prince Thork stepped through the postern and descended down the narrow stair. They paced to the center of the foregate court and peered long at the horsemen sitting in the vale below them.

Baran turned to Thork. “I will go down and speak with this Rider King, and see what he would say.”

“Let me bear your standard, Baran,” entreated Thork, “for I mistrust these Men.”

“Nay, Thork,” responded Baran. “I, too, mistrust them, yet should something happen to me, then you will be next DelfLord. We cannot put both of us at jeopardy, my brother.”

“Baran, it is not that much risk,” countered Thork. “See, the flagbearer wears no weapon, as is the custom of those who would negotiate. It would seem that they have come to parley.”

“Hah!” barked Baran. “You cannot have it both ways, Thork: you cannot at one and the same time declare your mistrust in them, and in the next breath maintain that their intentions are honorable and the risk small. Nay, Brother, I shall go forth with Bolk as my bearer.” Baran turned to the red-haired Chief Captain of the guard and nodded, and Bolk shed his weaponry and took up the battle flag of Kachar, crossed silver axes upon a field of black. And down into the vale they strode, Captain Bolk weaponless and bearing the standard, DelfLord Baran armed with an axe slung upon his back.

Aranor and Reynor sat ahorse midway between the mountain walls and watched as the two Dwarves marched down toward them. The two Harlingar had shunned the road that led up to the gate, deliberately riding up the center of the vale to better survey the likely battleground. Up the long vale they had come, its shoulders narrowing with every stride of the horses. Past the rune-marked Realmstone they had ridden, the strange Dwarven glyphs deeply etched into the dark stone. Up the grassy valley they had come, along a crystalline stream dashing down its center. Past a wide scorch upon the ground they had cantered, a place where a great pyre must have burned not so long ago, yet these two riders did not know what may have occurred thereupon. Up the vale they had hammered, and all the while their eyes had swept across the terrain they passed through, gauging its suitability for warfare, scanning for horse traps, pits disguised. Yet at last they had stopped, somewhat beyond the range of a crossbow, and Reynor had sounded the call to parley. And now the Dwarves had responded, for two on foot came advancing down the vale, one bearing a silver-glinting black flag stirring in the drifting air.

At last the pair of Dwarves came to stand before the mounted Vanadurin, stopping some twenty feet or so upslope, Baran unslinging his axe and grounding its cruel iron beak in the loam, leaning upon the helve.

“My Lord Aranor,” announced Reynor, “this be Emissary Baran, the one who made such outrageous claims upon the abandoned trove.”

“Outrageous-” sputtered Captain Bolk. “This be King Baran, DelfLord of Kachar, survivor of Rider foul treachery, son of slain Brak. And now, who be this crowned thief before us?”

Reynor’s face flushed scarlet with anger, and he would have leapt from his horse but for Aranor’s “Hold!”

Then Aranor turned his face toward Baran and spoke, his words answering Bolk’s question, but it was clear that he addressed the DelfLord and none other. “This so-called thief be Aranor, King of Jord, sire of slain Elgo, Prince of Jord, Sleeth’s Doom, Liberator of Blackstone, and rightful possessor and true owner of Sleeth’s hoard.”

Now Baran clenched the haft of his axe, his knuckles white with anger. “You cannot invest honor unto a thief merely by calling him a Liberator, merely by naming him Sleeth’s Doom, for by any name he is still a thief. If you would name him true, then Foul Elgo, you mean; Elgo the Japer, you mean.”

Baran flung up a hand to stay the angry words springing to Aranor’s lips, the Dwarf continuing: “Heed! If you would restore honor unto your nation, return to us that which is ours by right, for then and only then can you claim to be anything other than a nation of thieves.”

“Grasping Dwarf”-Aranor’s voice was low, dangerous-“if you would have the treasure that you abandoned and my son and his comrades won, then you must wrest it from us. And if you somehow could succeed in taking it from us-something that even in the wildest stretch of an addled imagination is still inconceivable-then all nations upon Mithgar would revile you, for it is ours by right of conquest, by right of salvage, by whatever name you may call it. By any measure, it is not now your property and has not been for centuries.

“Too, I would give you some advice, though you are not likely to listen, but still I offer it: if you would save gold in the future, then by damn fight for it instead of running and hiding and abandoning all claim; and never, never, let your greed o’errule what is right, for that leads to the path of utter destruction by the Just.”

All the time that Aranor was speaking, Baran’s face grew darker and darker with rage. “You speak of that which you name true, which you name Just, yet I see that at your right hand you depend upon one who violates the grey flag, O Mighty King of Jord,” gritted the DelfLord, his eyes locked upon Aranor’s, his barb accurately cast, striking home, for Reynor could not bring his gaze to bear upon the Dwarf. “But it surprises me not that this transgressor is in your company, for I deem all Riders to be chiselled from the same defective stone.

“Hearken! You speak as if that which our labor won was your property merely because you took it from a Dragon thief. But thieves stealing from thieves does not alter the fact that the property does not and never will belong to the last thief holding it.”

“By Adon, Dwarf,” exploded Aranor, “we are not thieves stealing from thieves! We are warriors who slew a monster, and took by right of conquest that which you abandoned ages agone. It is your greed for gold that drives you to such insane claims. It is you who would be the thief. But, by damn, if you would have that trove, then you’ll have to slay every last one of us to get it!”

“Just so, Rider! Just so!” Baran’s face was black with wrath. “And that is what we intend. Right here!”-he raised up his axe and violently thrust the iron beak down into the earth at his feet-“Right now!”

Aranor ground his teeth in rage. “So be it.” His angry eye swept upward across the sky. “Yet, Dwarf, not today, but rather on the morrow’s dawn.”

Baran’s answer jerked out through his own clenched teeth as he wrenched his axe from the soil. “On the morrow’s daūn.”

And as the Dwarves spun aheel and stalked upward toward the dark iron gates of Kachar, the Men wheeled their horses about and galloped down and across the vale, hieing unto the silver wood upon the distant slope.

“I chose the dawn because the Sun will be in their eyes”-Aranor’s shadowed gaze swept across the faces of his commanders-“offsetting their advantage of the high ground.”

It was dark, and they stood about a small field table, a sketch of the vale before them, illumed by lantern. During the day, scouts had ridden the morrow’s battleground, and every inch of the valley was represented on the chart, each special feature well noted-all the knolls and swales; hummocks; streams, down to the smallest rivulet; large boulders; places upon the mountain slopes where archers could gain vantage; tracts where horses would be slowed, and those where they would fly across the terrain; and other such needed battle knowledge-the Vanadurin scouts had marked it all.

And now the King and his commanders carefully studied the plat, noting where advantage could be gained and lost, given the actions of the enemy they faced. Long into the night they schemed, strategies and tactics bandied back and forth, trying to anticipate every move of friend and foe alike; and all about them encamped Men waited, tendrils of smoke threading upward from their small campblazes, glimmers of light in the darkness. Gathered into rope pens, horses stood quietly, munching upon fodder, stamping now and again, some nickering softly, a pale Moon overhead. And out on the perimeters, sentries stood alert, watchful eyes sweeping past the argent boles of the silver trees. And in the end, only these warders stood awake, for all others at last succumbed to weariness, many tossing restlessly, falling into dark dreams of the coming conflict.

It was much the same in the Châkkaholt of Kachar.

When dawn crept upon the land, on the western mountain slopes the great gates of Kachar swung wide, and Dwarven warriors issued forth in what seemed an endless stream. Down into the swale they marched, down before the gates, spreading out across the northern reach of the valley, the tread of their steps striking hard upon the earth. Black was their mail and glittering their hammers and axes, and light shone brightly upon their bucklers. In the fore strode archers, intricate crossbows in their grasps, quarrels at hand in hard leather quivers. And among the vanguard marched DelfLord Baran, a black standard with crossed silver axes proclaiming the Dwarf King’s place.

On the slope at the foot of the vale Aranor sat astride Flame and watched. To his right sat Reynor, the battle flag flying from his standard. Flanking them to right and left were the Harlingar commanders. And behind, in long rows, sat rank after rank of Vanadurin, pennons cracking in the breeze, the Host of Jord.

“My Lord,” said Vaeran, “they form a square, reserves in the center. Two thousand I deem to be their numbers. Their sunward flank be on the edge of the scree; it will be hard, mayhap impossible, to round on them from that quarter.” Vaeran spoke of what appeared to be an old rockslide that had tumbled from the steeps of the mountains hemming the vale, leaving a jumble of stone that a horse could not negotiate at speed. And the Dwarves now used the mass of talus to ward their sunward flank, nullifying Aranor’s strategy of attacking from out of the slanting bright light.

“Then, m’Lord,” boomed Einrich, “I suggest we take them head on.”

“There is this, Aranor”-Gannor’s firm voice cut through the air-“they take up a stance where the vale be strait. But see, their left flank: it is somewhat in the open. I deem with but a slight smile from Fortune, we could bring a brigade to bear upon it.”

“Then it would be we who would attack with the Sun in our eyes,” Richter observed. “Yet I think it a sound plan, for we may break their square. Let my brigade take on this task.”

“So be it,” ordered King Aranor. “Richter on the left, swinging ’round to take their flank. Einrich in the center, a head-on charge. Vaeran to the left, between the two. Hrosmarshal Gannor on the right.”

“And you, m’Lord,” queried Vaeran, “where will you ride?”

“Why, square in the center, Reachmarshal,” answered Aranor, “with Einrich’s brigade.”

“Hah!” barked Einrich, chortling, his great bulk jiggling with mirth. “We shall make these gold lusting Dwarves sing a different tune, my King.”

“Just so, Einrich,” responded Aranor. “Now, Commanders, inform your Captains of the battle plan.” Gripping his black-oxen horn in his fist, he raised it up. “We ride upon my signal.”

Still the Dwarves marched into position, but at last they had formed their square. And now they but stirred about, taking up their assigned posts.

Even so, Aranor waited.

At last came a horncall, ringing down the canyon walls of the vale: Roo! Roo! It was the belling of a Dwarven horn: Baran’s announcement that he awaited.

Raising his black-oxen horn to his lips, Aranor sounded a Vanadurin call: A-rahn! [Alert!]

Behind him, the thicket of spears of the Host stirred. The spirited horses, as if knowing the meaning of the horncall, as if sensing the tensions of their riders, pranced, sidle-stepping in their nervousness, or perhaps in eagerness to be underway.

Flame, too, stuttered his hooves upon the sod, dancing left then right. And in the saddle, Aranor raised his horn once more: Taaa! Taaa! [Forward at a walk!]

And the Host of Jord slowly moved upslope, like some great ponderous living tide.

Up the land they went, into the narrowing valley, and then-Ta-ta! Ta-ta! [At a trot! At a trot!]-the pace quickened.

Onward came the Host, the land now quivering beneath the hooves. Ta-ti-ta! Ta-ti-ta! [At a canter! At a canter!]

Closer they came, and closer still; and now the opposing forces could see the faces of one another. Ta-ra! Ta-ra! [At a gallop! At a gallop!]

Now the earth rumbled at their passage, and lances were lowered for the charge. And now Aranor blew mighty blasts upon his horn, and it was taken up by all of the Host: Raw! Raw! Raw! The sound rang throughout the vale, slapping back from perpendicular stone, the ancient call to charge. Horses hammered up the slope, now running full apace, their legs a flying blur, sod flinging up behind, the entire world seeming to tremble. And the Sun glinted wickedly from steel spear tip, thrust out to bring Death to the foe.

In the fore of the Dwarven Host, Baran watched as the irresistible wave hurtled toward him. “My Lord, now!” called the bugler, yet Baran waited a moment more, feeling the earth shake ’neath his feet. And then at last he barked out a command, and the golden horn rang forth. And of a sudden crossbow quarrels sleeted through the air, and hidden pikes were swung up and over the forefront, the butts of their hafts grounded in the slope, their barbarous blades slanting forward.

And into this deadly hail of quarrels and upon this slashing steel barricade the wave of Harlingar crashed.

Riders pitched backwards over cantles, punctured through, to be trampled by those who came behind. Horses were impaled upon the steel-tipped poles braced ’gainst the earth and fell screaming unto the ground. More coursers hammered through, whelming into the iron wall of Dwarves, steeds and Men alike dying upon the cruel fangs of War.

Even so, more Harlingar crashed into the Dwarven square, horses leaping over the forefront and smashing down among the ranks of the Châkka, and the Vanadurin lances shattered in the breasts of the black-mailed forked-bearded Folk.

Sweeping ’round the opening on the left side of the Dwarf formation, Richter led the brigade of the East Reach in a flanking movement, bringing his force to bear like the other half of a nutcracker crushing a stubborn hull. Yet no sooner had the Harlingar Legion turned to hammer into the Dwarves, than rushing forth from the great iron gates behind came charging an army of Châkka, led by a Dwarf bearing a scintillant shield-a Dragonhide shield-sparkling like a shattered rainbow, and in his right he gripped a steel warhammer.

Thork had come. And with him a thousand warriors charged. And they fell upon the rear of Richter’s force; for as planned, a Harlingar brigade had fallen into the Dwarven trap, a trap laid by Châkka cunning, and now it was the Men who were caught in the jaws of a vise, caught fore and aft between harsh steel talons of the Dwarven Legion. And Vanadurin fell screaming unto their death, but so too did Châkka.

Pikes shattered. Spears splintered. Iron rang on iron, and steel on steel. Sabers rived. Axes clove. Hammers crushed muscle and bone alike. Outbound sissing quarrels flashed past inbound hissing arrows, the deadly bolts and shafts thucking into vulnerable flesh. Horses belled and lashed out with lethal hooves, smashing into the foe afoot. Steeds were hammered screaming to the ground, their riders slaughtered, the slayers in turn cut down by whistling blade.

And the earth ran red with blood.

In that initial assault, Einrich fell to a crossbow quarrel, his massive body trampled to pulp by his own charging brigade. But Aranor survived, for another crashed into the pike aimed at the King, as Flame, great Flame, red stallion of the green plains ’round Skymere, screaming in wrath, leapt above the heads of those in the fore and smashed down among the fury of the Dwarven square, trapping the Jordian Lord among his enemies. And as Aranor hacked and slashed his way toward freedom, Reynor and Ruric and a handful of others managed to drive a small wedge into the square, linking up with Aranor, the fierce unit riving with bitter blades, driving outward until at last they had escaped the rage of the Châkka, though not all won free of the perimeter, but instead fell from their saddles and into the seething wrath of the warriors about them, never to rise again.

It was all sound and fury and ringing of metal and shouts of rage and shrieks of Death. Hacking and slashing, crushing and smashing, puncturing and piercing, all was violence and confusion and a lethal churn of Man, horse, Dwarf, and cold steel.

Struggling free at last, ’mid zizzing crossbow bolts, Aranor galloped for a nearby knoll. Behind came Ruric and Reynor and others of those who had survived the square. Of a sudden, Reynor’s swift-running horse shrieked and pitched out from under him, a quarrel through its skull. Reynor crashed to the ground, barely avoiding being rolled upon by the slain steed. Dazed, the young Man floundered to his feet as Ruric, coming after, called out his name. Reynor spun about and saw the Armsmaster galloping nigh, slowing his horse and reaching out his arm, crooked at the elbow to catch the downed rider up. And as Ruric rode past, Reynor hooked his arm in Ruric’s and sprang, the Armsmaster sweeping the younger Man up and ’round, Reynor swinging astride Flint’s haunches behind the saddle. And riding double they passed beyond the range of the crossbows and up onto the hillock to join the King where they could see the chaos and violence raging below.

There was no semblance of order among the Vanadurin, though the battered Dwarven square, despite all, still held firm. Too, Richter’s force was clearly trapped, and a glittering shield could be seen flashing among the battling foe surrounding them.

“Reynor, sound the call to withdraw,” commanded Aranor, his voice bitter. And none protested his decision, for it was plain to see that the Dwarves had won this day. Reynor raised his black-oxen horn to his lips and winded the bugle-Hahn, taa-roo! Hahn, taa-roo! [Withdraw! Withdraw!] — and so the call was taken up by all those who heard its knell, Richter mounting a charge of his brigade along the edge of the square, bringing the whole of his force to bear upon the weakest seam of the enemy’s ring of steel and driving downslope toward freedom, breaking through at last to pour outward ’mid sleeting quarrels, the hammered survivors joining the others who yet lived.

And as the Harlingar retreated, whelmed and discouraged, behind they could hear the jeering of the Dwarven foe.

And in the center of the valley the brook flowed, the stream a scarlet ribbon bleeding down through the deadly vale.

“He was everywhere,” said Richter, “that Dwarf with the rainbow shield and the whelming maul. . their mightiest warrior, I ween. Alone, he accounted for many of our slain, and twice I saw him take a direct strike upon that shimmering buckler, to no effect.”

“’Tis the Dragonhide Elgo brought,” growled Ruric.

“Dragonhide or no,’ responded Richter, “he is a nemesis, this wielder of the flashing steel hammer, this bearer of the shatterlight shield.”

“But not invincible, Richter, as you would have him be.” The speaker was Vaeran. “Nay, not invincible. And if we would take the heart out of these gold-grabbing Dwarves, then I say that we must slay him, whoever he is, as well as bring down their King.”

“Mayhap it will come to single combat: Baran and I.” With a long charred stick, Aranor stirred the fire before them. “And as to the one who bears the shield of splintered light, mayhap he is their champion, or one of the royal Line, for I cannot imagine such a token being borne by any other.”

Aranor sat in thought for a moment. “Rach! We were such utter fools to fall into that flanking trap they set for us. And we should have known that they would have pikes awaiting us. Yet in our unmitigated arrogance, we blindly rushed in, instead of thinking.”

“We simply discovered what we should have always known, Sire,” stated Vaeran, “that the foe is cunning. But heed, when next we do battle it is we who shall emerge the victor.”

“But how do we break that square, Vaeran?” Aranor’s question was on the minds of all.

“First the crossbows and pikes, Sire,” answered Vaeran. “This I propose: that we stay just beyond the range of their quarrels and rain arrows down upon them. This should take out their own archers. Pikes, too, if our aim be true.”

Aranor growled. “Garn! But I mislike this plan, Vaeran. It suits me not to stand back and fly arrows at these graspers. Rather would I cleave straight through their heart.”

“Aye, Sire,” responded Vaeran, his sharp features highlighted in the lambency of the flames. “I too would rather cut through the gluttonous foe, yet we saw today that it could not be done.”

Grudgingly, Aranor nodded. “I suppose that once the pikes and bows are rendered useless, then we cut through that square of theirs.”

Ere Vaeran could answer, Reynor came unto the fire and stepped into the ring of light. “Sire, I have the tally.”

All fell quiet, for Reynor bore news as to the numbers wounded and killed.

“Say on,” Aranor commanded, bracing himself for the worst.

“We lost somewhat more than seven hundred, my Lord”-Reynor’s voice was grim-“and nearly three hundred are wounded such that they cannot bear arms. And, all told, just over nine hundred horses were slain, some eight hundred were killed in battle, the rest were destroyed to end their suffering.”

A stunned silence ringed the campblaze. But at last: “Adon. A thousand Men, a thousand horses.” Aranor spoke softly yet all heard him. “All because of the greed of Dwarves.”

“What of the foe, Reynor,” queried Vaeran. “How many lost on their side.”

“The healers are not yet returned from the field, Marshal Vaeran,” answered Reynor. “When they come, then shall we know.”

And out upon the battlefield, Harlingar healers and Châkka alike moved among the dead and wounded, ministering herbs and simples, binding bleeding gashes and cuts, splinting broken limbs, bearing the dead and injured from the field. At times, Vanadurin squatted but paces from Châk, each treating their own, each ignoring the other. And litters shuttled to and fro as the casualties were carried unto their respective places of refuge.

And as they worked, each noted the number of the foe that had fallen. But the Harlingar observed something else, as well: as dusk had crept upon the land, additional healers had come forth from the gates of Kachar, bearing phosphorescent lanterns emitting a soft blue-green light; yet whether these new attendants were Dwarves, they could not say, for each of these helpers were guarded by an escort of warriors, and now and then a soft keening could be heard.

The following day a truce was arranged so that each side could bury their dead:

The Harlingar placed their fallen ’neath green turves at the distant foot of the vale, but as was their custom, they mourned not, for War was upon them, and grieving would come later. Too, saddles, bridles, and the trappings of War were taken from slain horses, but the dead beasts were left to lie upon the field of their slaughter. Lastly, a waggon train bearing the wounded set out that day, faring for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond, the less wounded driving the more severely hurt, a few healers accompanying them.

And out before the iron gates of Kachar, the Châkka placed their dead upon great pyres, and all day the flame of the burning flared bright, and a dark column of smoke rose up into the sky. And again, a doleful keening could be heard after the Sun fell into the night.

On the second day of combat, the Harlingar attempted to execute the plan suggested two evenings before. Yet it was virtually ineffective, for the Dwarves had anticipated the Harlingar move, and great pavises were borne out from the gate and set before the ranks, and these ground-supported shields effectively warded the Châkka from the arrows of the Vanadurin. And Aranor gnashed his teeth as Dwarven jeers rang in the vale.

At last, again the Men of Jord mounted a charge, this time bringing the bulk of their force to bear upon the center of the fore of the square. And now the Dwarves fell back, slowly retreating unto the safety of their own gates, and every foot of ground that they yielded was costly to the Harlingar, the toll of battle high.

And when the great gates clanged to, the battle ended; and on this day it was the Harlingar who jeered at the foe, though there was not much by which to claim victory.

Again a truce was called to care for the dead. And the Harlingar buried their slain and mourned not, while the Châkka burnt theirs and wept. And it was at this time that Aranor realized what he had not known before: that the great scorched patch upon the earth nigh the head of the vale when he had first come unto Kachar had marked the place of a funeral pyre, a pyre for the slain emissaries. . or mayhap Dwarf King Brak.

On the third day of strife, some thirty-four hundred Harlingar took to the field against nearly twenty-one hundred Châkka, facing off against one another in a battle they would never fight.