“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.”