Dragondoom

CHAPTER 38

Mid and Late Summer, 3E1602

[This Year]

A month or more did Black Kalgalath return each dawn to Kachar, as Châkka watched from the hidden vale-gate, from safety. The Drake rent soil and mutilated corpses and hurled brazen challenges from nearby mountain peaks. And during those same weeks, nought else but vultures and gorcrows did the Dwarves see venture into the vale-except one afternoon a copper-haired Human maiden rode within, and then back out. . yet the Châkka attributed no significance to it. And in that month or more, the Châkka drove small tunnels through the Mountain stone aflank the great gate, driving all but the last few feet, following Masterdelver Fendor Stonelegs’ plan, tunnels to act as side posterns to be used to get access to the great pile of rubble covering the main portal to clear it away, once the Drake stopped coming. And at last the Dragon gave up his morning forays, for there was no sport in ripping up soil and mutilating long-dead corpses, and neither the Dwarves nor the Men provided fresh victims. And so there came a day when Black Kalgalath did not appear, and then another day, and another; and when a week had passed and still he had not returned, the Châkka deemed that they could complete the work. And after another week or so they punched through the last few feet of granite to come out into the vale; and they set the small yet massy iron doors at each passage end, doors held shut by heavy iron bars; and they placed linchpins in the roofs of each corridor to collapse the tunnels should events in the future come to a dire pass and call for such desperate measures. And when these things were done, when the postern tunnels were finished, then were they ready to begin removing the talus-boulders and slabs and scree-covering the main gate.

And in those same weeks, duels were fought, though at a somewhat less frequent rate, for both the Dwarves and the Men had been apprised of the consequences of total warfare within these cloistered halls. And most of the Men came to focus their hatred upon Captain Bolk, whom they deemed their Dwarven jailor, for he and his warding Châkka represented all that they despised: the confinement, the lack of grassy plains and fresh air and open skies, the ache they felt in their chests whenever they thought of hearth and home, the death of comrades. Too, the Harlingar could not escape the feeling that they were in the pits of Hèl, for they recalled the fables that spoke of heroes lost forever in the grim underworld, a dreadful place entered through caves and holes and crevices in the earth, a woeful place of no return; and this, too, drew down their spirits, dragging them toward despair. And even though King Aranor and Armsmaster Ruric and Reachmarshal Vaeran and Marshal Boer often walked among the Men and spoke with them to lift their hearts, still the frustration rode the souls of all, and more duels were fought, more Men and Dwarves died, and the Dragontruce between them became even more hostile.

And when the day arrived that the Fire-drake grew weary of his sport, when he no longer came, when the postern tunnels were ready, then DelfLord Baran ordered that the work begin to clear the main gate, and that the Men aid, for they were at the root of this trouble and it was only Just that they help dig themselves out.

“What?” exploded Reynor. “This Dwarf commands us to become moles? Commands us? Nay, Ruric. I am a plainsman born, and I’ll not grub-”

“Ye’ll do as yer own King ha’ decreed!”-Ruric’s words were harsh-“And if that means we must dig, then, by Hèl, we will dig!”

And so the Vanadurin were put to work on the great pile of rubble before the gates, working ’round the clock in shifts alongside the Châkka: prying, levering, shovelling, rolling, carting. And slowly, steadily the talus diminished.

But even though they worked toward a common goal, even though the Harlingar at last were out in the open air, even though both sides now had a hard, laborious task to occupy them, the animosity between Man and Dwarf diminished little, though the number of duels dropped nigh to nought.

And in that same time, the Dragon-slain were gathered up by their respective comrades, though at times, as mutilated as they were, it was difficult to tell whether the dead were Dwarves or Men. And each side took care of its own, the Harlingar burying their slaughtered brothers-in-arms, the Châkka burning theirs; and the Châkka shook their heads in puzzlement that the Men would throw their slain into holes in the ground, assuring that their spirits would be trapped an additional age by the soil and roots in their place of interment instead of being swiftly set free by the purifying fire; the Vanadurin were equally puzzled as to why the Châkka would burn their own, leaving nought behind to remember but ashes, instead of a clean, grassy mound.

Finally, after seventeen days of continuous toil, of breaking rock and clearing boulder, of shovelling scree and hauling talus, the gate was clear: the Men could leave.

Up out of the depths they came, out of the holt of Kachar: nine hundred horses and somewhat over a thousand Harlingar, many of whom were wounded, most from the War, some from the Dragon, a few from duels. Yet DelfLord Baran had given King Aranor some twelve wains, and some of the horses were drafted to draw these waggons forth from the Châkkaholt and over the mountains to Jordkeep, waggons bearing wounded, waggons bearing Men who had no mounts of their own.

And when all the Men were evacuated, and the waggons trundled toward Kaagor Pass, the mounted Harlingar wheeled in long array, and faced a greater array of Châkka on foot, the Dwarves bearing weapons and wearing armor, the armed Vanadurin mounted upon horses, chain and leather gleaming in the morning Sun. This was the time of leave-taking, for Aranor had called for a return to Jord. Yet there was one more ceremony to be performed, and this was the time of its doing. Then did Baran step forth from the ranks of his warriors, and he bore a grey flag upon a wooden standard. And breaking the staff across his knee and casting the flag to the earth, he cried for all to hear, “This Dragontruce is done!”

And Aranor so signified by a nod of his head.

Yet suddenly, ere any could stop him, Bolk stepped forward also, and he pulled a flag from out of his armor. Green and white it was, and he held it up for all to see-a white horse rampant upon a field of green-the battle flag of Jord, a flag taken weeks past from among the battle-slain. And Bolk spat upon it and hurled it to the earth and ground it into the soil with his heel.

And Reynor, in a rage, all his hatred for this squat, bearded jailor exploding in fury, spurred forward, right at Bolk, spear raised for throwing-

“No!” cried Aranor.

“Kill the bastard!” shouted Gannor

— a Dwarf in Bolk’s Company raising his crossbow-

— Reynor’s arm hurtling forward-

— quarrel flying-

— hand loosing shaft-

The bolt struck Reynor in the throat the instant he released his lance, deflecting his aim. And as Reynor pitched backward over his cantle, dead ere striking the ground, the hard-thrown spear punched through the chain of the Dwarf standing next to Bolk, piercing his heart and beyond, running him through; and thus it was that Baran, DelfLord of Kachar, fell dead, slain by a weapon meant for another.

And the field exploded in battle.

Long did it last, and it was bloody, Men falling upon one side, Châkka upon the other. Yet at last the Men withdrew, Aranor leaving the field with less than seven hundred Harlingar, most of them wounded.

Aranor sat ahorse and looked down into the valley. And at his side was Ruric.

“A valley of death we gaze upon, Old Wolf,” said Aranor at last, breaking the long silence. “Our warriors, our youth, lie slain upon this bloody field. The future of our nation is bleak, and many years will pass ere we recover.”

“ ’Tis the curse o’ the Dracongield, my Lord. I be now the lone survivor o’ that ill-fated raid. Would that we ha’ ne’er heard o’ Sleeth and his terrible hoard o’ gold.”

Long moments more they sat, each deep within his own thoughts, but at last Aranor gave the signal.

Defeated, the Men of Jord turned for home.

And deep within the Châkkaholt, where the wailing voices of Châkia keened over the newly slain, Bolk, mighty in battle, slammed his axe to the council table. “Then it is settled: Come the spring, we shall take this War unto the gates of Jordkeep. We shall slay the Men and take back that which be rightfully ours: the treasure of Blackstone.”

For at that time they did not know, could not know, that the keep of Aranor lay in shambles, and that the hoard of Sleeth was gone.