“Jackass Dwarf,” Elyn replied, placing her back to his. “This would be a song the bards would ever sing if they but knew.”
And back to back in the center of a clearing ’neath a quarter Moon, two wounded warriors stood and waited, their weapons at the ready.
CHAPTER 14
Midyear, 3E1601
[Last Year]
They rode into the sheer-walled valley at dawn, Elgo and his Warband. And even though it was Year’s Long Day, still the Vanadurin fared in deep shadows, for the new Sun was on the east flank of the Rigga Mountains, while the Harlingar were on the west. Steadily they forged inward, passing along the ruins of an ancient tradeway, portions of it dimly visible within the darkness, though most of the Dwarven-cut stones were sunk ’neath the soil. Four wains trundled along this remnant of an earlier age, the waggons drawn by swift tarpan ponies and escorted by the Harlingar; without the cargo they bore, Elgo’s plan would come to nought.
Inward they rode, and vaguely before them could be seen the steeps of the Rigga, massifs and pitches and soaring abutments ramping upward, stone upon stone rising unto the alpenglow, the innumerable shadows mustered unto the palisades slowly disbanding before the growing light of the dim early morn; soon most of the darkness would be gone, except for those crafty shadows that would slip behind the crags, warily circling, ever keeping their own rock between them and the moving Sun.
Eastward bore the Vanadurin, the floor of the valley curving this way and that, a rushing stream glimmering along the ravine to their right, its waters hastening o’er rounded stones. Alongside this waterway wended the roadbed followed by the Harlingar, the sounds of hooves and waggon wheels mingling with the plash. And as they rode inward the canyon narrowed, till it was no more than fifty paces wide.
Into this deep darkling slot went the Warband, to come upon a high stone wall down within the crevasse, crenelated battlements spanning the width of the gorge, a crafted bulwark of carven rock, an ancient Dwarven defense ’gainst invaders. Through the wall was an opening, under a barbican, and the course they followed fared within upon a stonework way, the stream issuing forth from beneath the road, flowing through a culvert barred by a rusted grille. The fore portcullis was raised, its iron-spiked teeth also stained with rust.
Along this way and into this passage fared the Vanadurin, following the twisting route inside, chattering echoes of iron-shod hooves and iron-rimmed waggon wheels accompanying them. Overhead in the roofway of the passage could be seen machicolations, called murder holes by some, for through them would fly arrows and bolts and scalding liquids to rain down upon invaders trapped within. But not on this day at this place would death hurl from above, for these walls were now deserted, and had been so for more than a millennium. And beneath the unguarded bulwark passed the Harlingar, to find the rear portcullis also raised by those who had fled before.
Through the wall and out the far side went Elgo and his Men, and now the ravine began to widen, belling outward, receding to left and right, hemmed in by perpendicular stone rising high above, though still the floor wended this way and that, the brook now leftward of the roadway. Easterly they fared, and before them loomed the sheer face of the Rigga Mountains, the dark rock in its massiveness seeming close enough to touch.
Now the Warband came to the very head of the valley, chary eyes seeking to see what dangers might therein be. Before them lay a wide courtyard fetching up against the shadowed flank of the rising mountain. To their left the gurging rill issued forth from beneath the sheer rock, flowing out through a low, barred stonework opening, becoming the swift-running stream that dashed down the length of the vale. But this rushing bourn did not hold their gaze, for yawning before them at last stood the ebon gape of the west door into Blackstone, the great iron gates, torn from their hinges, lying rusty upon the dark granite forecourt, where Sleeth had hurled them down some sixteen hundred years agone. Cautiously they stepped their steeds forward, iron-shod hooves ringing on stone, iron-rimmed wheels grinding after, past a great stone pedestal in courtyard center with carven steps winding up and around. Harlingar eyes swept side to side, seeing nought but dead stone, their gazes ever returning unto the forbidding blackness of this hole before them. Ancient Vanadurin legend told of the haunted Realm of the Underworld, where heroes come to ruin. And always in these hearthtales, the way to disaster led through cracks and splits and holes in the ground, through carven cavern as well as unworked cave. Ever would the heroes ignore the warnings of loved ones, ever would they disregard the portents of the gods, and ever would they enter through these fissures in the earth, never to escape the dreadful woe awaiting within. And now Elgo’s Warband stepped toward a great black hole boring into the earth, grim folklore skittering through their minds, hackles rising on their napes at sight of this dark pit. Yet the Vanadurin, brave warriors of the grassy plains and open skies, rode inward toward their unknown destinies, just as did the paladins in those dire legends of old.
Riding into the foregate courtyard, the Warband halted, Elgo dismounting, hand signalling the others to do likewise. Before them the face of the mountain rose sheer unto the sky, the portal carved in a great massif. And as the sky lightened and day filtered down into the deep vale, they could see where the Dwarvenholt got its name, for the stone was ebon black, a darkling rock that sucked at the light.
Near the door lay a great ballista, partly assembled, its metal fallen into rust, the wood grey and weak, splintered by weather, pitted by age. Nearby lay long iron shafts, quarrels, also rusted nigh unto total ruin, except for the crafted points, made of some silvery alloy, traces of a dark grume within the flutes.
Too, there lay the arms and armor of Dwarven warriors-axes, crossbows, chain, plate-corroded beyond redemption. And the armor held other remains: the shattered skulls and broken bones of those long dead, and bits of tattered cloth and leather.
“Ruric,” Elgo said softly, “methinks we look upon evidence of a Dwarven party that sought to evict a Drake ages past. Tell the Men not to touch the smůt upon yon shaft points; for though legend has it that Dragon’s blood destroys any poison, still would the Dwarves test that legend, and I deem this dark smearing to have been a deadly blending of theirs, and may be deadly still.” Elgo’s eyes scanned the scene. “From all indications, Sleeth came upon them ere they were ready, but ai-oi! see the size of that bow. As we have spoken ere now, a band would need to use a shaft-caster to have a chance of dealing a Drake a deathblow by these means. Even so, should they miss, all would be lost, for there would not be enough time to reload ere the creature would be upon them. Or should they hit and not penetrate Dragonhide, then all is lost as well. Or should they penetrate and merely wound. . well, it matters not, for the signs show that this Dwarven band was unprepared when they came to ruin”-Elgo glanced at the lightening sky-“a fate we must avoid. Let us hurry, for we have much to do in the day that is left.”
As Ruric oversaw the unlading of the waggons, Elgo and Reynor made their way up two foregate steps and across a wide flat past the torn-down portals and into the arch of the great west gateway. Cautiously they peered into the dark environs before them, seeing a great hallway receding beyond sight, fading into the black bowels of this ebon hole carved into the earth. To right and left along the walls they could vaguely see great buttresses rising to support an unseen roof in the darkness above.
“Look!” exclaimed Reynor, pointing to the floor.
There upon the stone was a wide path, dimly shining, stained with ruddy grume, an ancient well-worn track of a great beast slithering in and out of its lair, belly scales polishing the floor beneath a massive bulk, grinding the dripping blood of a carried victim into the black rock. A faint smell drifted upon the air: reptilian, viperous.