Seething, the red-bearded Dwarf held his tongue and said no more, but his eyes burned at Elgo.
Mastering his own ire, Baran turned once more to Elgo. “I would ask you this, O Man: If a large burly thief knocked down an innocent citizen and stole a purse from him, and if you witnessed this and immediately slew the thief and recovered the purse, and if there was a gold piece inside the purse, then who would the gold belong to?”
“The citizen,” answered Elgo. “But-”
“Bear with me,” interrupted Baran. “Now what if you had not actually witnessed the crime, and instead the thief had managed to run around the corner ere you saw him, but you had heard the cry ‘Stop thief!’ and knew that this was the criminal, and then you slew him. Whose gold would it now be?”
“Still the innocent citizen’s,” answered Elgo, seeing where Baran’s argument was leading, but waiting his turn.
“And what if the thief managed to flee cross-country ere you slew him,” continued Baran, “yet from a reward poster you recognized him months later, then whose gold would it be?”
“Perhaps mine,” answered Elgo, smiling a toothy smile, “for who is to say that it was the very same gold. Most likely a thief would have spent the citizen’s gold by then, and this would be someone else’s, mayhap even the thief’s if he but labored for it.”
“That is not the case, Prince!” snapped Baran. “The whole world knows that Sleeth stole from us. The whole world knows that the treasure he took is the very same treasure you found. And he who refuses to return property stolen by a thief becomes a thief in turn!”
Elgo continued to grin, yet it was the smile of a predator. “Let me use your own words, O Dwarf: Suppose the thief moved onto the citizen’s land, into the citizen’s house. Suppose the citizen asked no one for help and gave up trying to retake his land and his house and his gold piece. Suppose the citizen died. Suppose his heirs abandoned his land and all the goods thereupon and made no attempt to regain it. Suppose more than a thousand years pass and no heir ever lays claim to the ancestral place, no heir attempts to evict the thief, no heir posts a reward, no heir ever cries ‘Stop thief!’ Suppose that later you come across this abandoned land, and slay the evil occupant, and searching, find the abandoned gold piece.
“Now I ask you, Lord Baran, whose gold is it? Whose land is it? I caution you to answer carefully, for if you say that it belongs to the heirs, then all the Lands we now occupy, these Steppes, your undermountain Realms, all these Lands once belonged to someone else, someone who abandoned their claims ages apast and drifted on. Yet you would have their heirs own it.
“But I tell you here and now that if they be abandoned, then those that find them and claim them and defend them and hold them are the true owners.”
Anger flared up in Baran’s eyes. “By Adon, we did not abandon that land! Nor the treasure upon it!”
“Then you lost it in War,” said Elyn, speaking for the first time. “Heed me! Only the diligent can show that they did not abandon their claim, yet we all know that you have not been diligent. But diligent or no, Lands lost in War go to the victor. And just as you lost Blackstone to Sleeth, oh so long ago, so did Sleeth lose it to Elgo but months past. From vanquished to victor go the spoils, and that includes the long-lost treasure, for in this War, Elgo was victorious.”
“But the spoils of War are to be returned to those wrongfully deprived of their property,” shot back Baran. “Else there be no justice, no honor.”
“Then, my dear Dwarf,” answered Elyn, “I suggest that you return that which you took from the Rutcha during your Wars with them.”
At these words, many of the Dwarves’ faces flushed with anger, and some growled and futilely reached for their axes, forgetting that they resided upon a table in the antechamber. “War with the Ukhs will never be ended!” spat Baran.
‘When the shoe is on the other foot,” Elyn rejoined, “oft’ it hurts painfully.”
“This be not the same”-Baran’s voice was low and dangerous-“for our claim be Just. In honest War between honorable foes, spoils go to the winner, and the loser has no cause for claim.”
Elyn immediately responded: “Then be grateful, Lord Baran, that my brother has seen fit to return Blackstone unto you, for if he desired it for his own, then by your own words you would have no claim to it.”
“Did you not hear me, Woman?” Baran’s eyes flashed in rage. “Sleeth was not an honorable foe. He had no claim to Blackstone. And if you say that by defeating Sleeth, Elgo’s claim to stolen property is somehow made legitimate, then you are saying that Elgo stands at the same level of honor as Sleeth.”
Elgo ground his teeth in ire. “What I tell you, Dwarf, is that you must actively pursue a claim for it to stand the test of ownership. Your kind did not; for more than fifteen hundred years you lay no claim, hence all right of dominion was abandoned centuries ago by you and yours. Thus, whether or not Sleeth was an honorable foe is moot!”
Angrily, Baran stood, his fists clenched. Opposite, Elgo got to his feet as well. And so stood all the Dwarves and Vanadurin, the very air seething with hostility.
“I will deliver your message, Prince Elgo”-Baran’s voice was fell-“though these words of truth, my words, will go with it. Blackstone was ours, the treasure was ours, until stolen by Sleeth. You now hold that which was ours and refuse to hand it over to the true owners. You are sung of in a hero’s song, yet you have no honor.”
Rage flared in Elgo’s eye, and his scars again burned red with wrath, and he would have sprung across the table had Ruric not grabbed his arm and restrained him, barking, “They be here under a grey flag.”
Angrily, Elgo shook off Ruric’s grip. “And who will you deliver my answer to, Dwarf?”
“To my sire, Brak, DelfLord of Kachar, Rider,” answered Baran, quivering in outrage.
“Then save your breath, Dwarf,” hissed Elgo, “for I will deliver the message myself.” And he spun on his heel and stalked from the great hall.
So too did the Dwarves storm from the negotiating room, snatching up their axes, boiling outward from the castle to the stables, saddling ponies to fare north, unwilling to spend even one night in the care of the Harlingar.
And from the smithy that night came the clanging of hammer upon chisel, anvil ringing with labored strokes as Elgo whelmed upon Dragonhide, preparing a suitable gift for Brak, DelfLord of Kachar.
CHAPTER 20
Early Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
Dawn was breaking to a swirling mist as the column of Vanadurin cantered out from the castle. In the lead rode Elgo, the ten survivors of the Dragon-slaying raid following in his wake. Just behind and to Elgo’s right rode Reynor, spear-lance couched in stirrup cup, the attached flag lank in the ground-hugging fog, the cloth damply furled about the standard, the white horse rampant upon green field not showing. On Elgo’s left, riding Flint, Ruric fared, the Armsmaster deep in thought. Atop the ramparts stood Elyn and Arianne, the latter with Bram in her arms, all watching the small band set forth, Elyn remaining behind to guide the Realm until either Aranor or Elgo returned. And as the column rode out of sight in the mist, Arianne whispered to Bram and then waved, but whether or not the farewell was answered or even seen, she could not say, for the grey fog had swallowed up the Men.
The morning wore on, and the Sun at last burned away the field mist. And as the orb rose higher, so did the fire in Elgo’s eye. Rage seethed in his heart, for he could not set aside the image of Baran demanding that the Vanadurin give over the hard-won treasure that the Dwarves had abandoned centuries apast.