“Hai roi! Let us hie to the throne room, my brother,” urged Elyn, her own spirits soaring, for she had never before seen a Dwarf, “and greet them in state.”
Swiftly and laughing and calling for a page, brother and sister scurried down the ladderway-Like children at play, thought Ruric, coming at a more sedate pace.
A herald stepped forward into the great hall, crying, “M’Lords and Ladies, Baran, son of Brak, DelfLord of Kachar, approaches with his retinue.”
Scowling, Baran and nine other Dwarves were escorted into the throne room, rays of sunshine pouring down brightly through the high windows. Therein assembled were Elgo, upon the royal seat, with Arianne at his side, and Elyn and Ruric and Reynor-now Captain of the Guard-in attendance. There too was Mala, who would miss no affair of state held in open court, especially an affair this curious, as well as Darcy and Elise and Kyla, attendants to the fair Arianne. Ranged along the perimeter of the throne room were twenty warriors of the Castleward, ready to deal with trouble should it arise, for these Dwarves, though allies in the past, bore arms and armor into the Keep of Jord.
So these are Dwarves, short but broad; strong, I wager. Elyn tried to look at ease, yet she noted that the Dwarven warriors had naturally and casually fallen into a group stance that would quickly shift into one of defense. By their scowls, not very friendly, though steadfast, I hear. I wonder how well they swing those axes slung across their backs.
As hastily rehearsed, Reynor stepped forward. “My Lord Baran, may I present the most puissant Elgo, Prince of Jord, Slayer of Sleeth, Liberator of Blackstone. I present as well Arianne, his Princess.”
A look of irritation passed over Baran’s visage, as if he would dismiss these tedious formalities. Yet warily, stiffly, the Dwarf bowed, his eyes never leaving Elgo’s scarred face.
The Prince stood, his hand on the pommel of his saber. “Welcome to Jord, my Lord Baran. Would that my sire were here to greet you, for he has long wished to meet a representative of your Realm. Our two Kingdoms would profit by an association, as you no doubt would agree; and if that is the matter you have come to discuss, we will host you till my sire’s return, for he would wish to deal personally with such an important concern. If you instead have come on another matter altogether, then I would hear what brings you unto Jord.”
The Dwarf stepped forward, the look in his eye grim. “We have come for that which is ours, Prince Elgo,” growled Baran, “the hoard of Sleeth the Orm.”
“What?” exploded Elgo, his good eye flashing a steely blue, his scars flaming red with anger. “You cannot be serious. The trove is ours, won by blood and death.”
“That the hoard cost you lives, I do not doubt, and so you and yours deserve a finder’s fee,” responded Baran, “yet I am most deadly serious when I say that we have come for that which is ours.” Baran gestured to his comrades. “But ere we speak further, we would see this hoard, for it is but an unconfirmed rumor that has brought us to your domain; for all we know, it be but a spurious tale.”
“Spurious? Pah! See it you shall,” gritted Elgo, ire burning in his face, “but not a single coin will you take back with you.” Elgo stalked down from the throne dais, leading the Dwarven delegation toward the treasury, Elyn, Ruric, and Reynor at his side, Reynor signalling the Castleward guardians to follow, Arianne, Mala, and the Ladies-in-waiting left behind.
Winding through the castle, down to the lower levels they fared, Prince and Princess, Dwarves and escort, coming at last to a well-guarded portal. At Elgo’s command, the barred portcullis was raised. They entered a wide room, and other guards stepped forward to meet them, one in particular, a giant of a Man bearing a great ring of keys. Again Elgo spoke, and the warden led them a way farther, taking up a lantern to light their steps. Finally, at the end of a short corridor, an iron door stood locked. Rattling through his keys, the Man slipped one into the well-oiled lock, turning it with a clack.
Silently, the portal swung open, and into a large room stepped the Dwarven emissaries with their Vanadurin escort. A set of floor-to-ceiling iron bars stood across the room midway, in the center of which was another locked portal. Beyond the bars gleamed the trove of Sleeth the Orm, jewels, gold, silveron, all casting glints of lantern light back unto the eyes of the beholders. The warden lit lamps hanging from wall brackets, and all of the glittering hoard could now be seen.
Forward crowded the Dwarves, fetching up against the barrier, staring through the bars at the great trove before them, their eyes wide, unbelieving, taking in the bulk, the mass, of the treasure. Long they looked, as if searching for something missing. Finally Baran growled, “Is this the whole of it?”
“Nay,” answered Elgo. “Much lies at the bottom of the Boreal Sea.”
“What I meant, Prince Elgo,” gritted Baran, “was: is this all that survived?”
“And what I meant, Lord Baran,” rejoined Elgo, fire rising in his voice, “is that if you would have any of Sleeth’s hoard, then by Hèl, I suggest that you mine the Maelstrom for it.”
“Pah!” spat Baran, his Dwarven temper rising. But ere he could say on-
“I would remind both o’ ye,” Ruric lashed out, “that a grey flag be borne in this matter. Let us step away from this cursed trove and speak wi’ reason upon it.”
Glowering at one another, Elgo and Baran reluctantly gave sharp nods of their heads, and the assemblage made their way back unto the great hall.
They sat at a great long table: Châkka arrayed along one side, Baran in the center; Vanadurin along the other side, Elgo midmost. Eye to eye they faced one another: Dwarves glaring at Harlingar, Harlingar glaring at Dwarves. At each end, grey flags sat upon standards.
Weapons were forbidden in this room, all being stacked upon tables in an antechamber.
As protocol demanded, the Dwarves were first to speak, Baran holding forth: “That Sleeth came and took Blackstone, there can be no doubt. That we owned Blackstone and the trove within, there can be no question either. Thus there can be no quarrel that the treasure is ours. Yet, we are Just in our dealings with others, hence we offer you a finder’s fee, a quarter of the trove, a fair price for your labors.”
“Pah!” snorted Elgo, but held his tongue, waiting for Baran to finish this ridiculous charade.
But Baran said no more, his case stated clear enough for anyone to comprehend, even an overbearing fool.
Seeing that the Dwarf was finished with his claiming and offering, Elgo responded: “We agree that Blackstone was yours, that the trove was yours, that Sleeth came and took it. But heed! You did not diligently try to regain that which was yours. Yet wait! Ere you claim that is not so, list to me: If the bards be right, then twice you strove to reclaim your former property; indeed, we saw evidence of one of your failed attempts-a great ballista with poisoned shafts, partly assembled, it seems, when Sleeth struck your people down. But long ago you abandoned your assays, hence, yielding over all claim to Blackstone and the treasure within to any who could succeed where you had failed.
“Well, I did not fail. And the treasure is mine. And so, if you would have a like treasure, then I say return to Blackstone and delve for it! I give you back the holt, for Men live not like moles underground!”
“You know not of which you speak,” shouted a red-bearded Dwarf to Baran’s right, “for thrice we-”
“Maht! [Silence!]” roared Baran in the hidden tongue, glaring at the one who had burst forth. “Nid pol kanar vo a Châkka! Agan na stur ka Dechâkka! [None shall know of that but the Châkka! Reflect no dishonor upon our ancestors!]”