Elgo’s thoughts were incandescent: Thirty died for that gold, all of them heroes, all of them Sons of Harl, the blood of Harclass="underline" Harlingar. Nay! ’Twas more than thirty, for steadfast Fjordsmen died as well. And now these Dwarves would set their deaths aside and have them be for nought.
“Damn all Dwarves and their greed!” Elgo burst out aloud.
Ruric, at the Prince’s side, cleared his throat.
“Say what you would, Old Wolf,” growled Elgo, turning his face leftward and looking at the Armsmaster. “You’ve been silent too long as it is.”
“I be reminded o’ a young impatient lad in a clearing in a thicket long ago, hammering away at staves wi’ a fledgling Warrior Maid,” responded Ruric. “’Twas then I told ye that pride be the downfall o’ many, and that ’twould be yer own undoing one day lest ye learn to control yer prideful temper, yer prideful ways.”
“By Hèl, Ruric,” exploded Elgo, “is that what you think this is all about? These Dwarves demanding our treasure? Pride? The pride of a Prince?”
“Nay, my Lord,” answered Ruric, undaunted by Elgo’s outburst. “The Dwarves be wrong, make no mistake, for they abandoned that accursed gold long ago. E’en so, ’twould serve them right if we merely gave it to them; then ’twould be theirs to deal wi’ the bane o’ it. Nay, my proud Prince, ’tis not the Dwarves’ demand I fret o’er; ’tis instead yer temper concerns me. Let not yer prideful ways gain the upper hand in the days ahead, for if they do, then I tell ye now as I ha’e told ye in the past, yer temper will surely carry ye to defeat.”
Elgo rode in silence for a long while ere responding to Ruric’s words: “Old Wolf, mayhap you be right about my ‘prideful ways,’ my ‘prideful temper,’ and mayhap you even be right about a bane on the trove, though I misdoubt it, but by damn, these Dwarves do get in my craw, and I’ll rot in Hèl ere I let them have aught of Sleeth’s hoard.”
Ruric said nought in return, remaining silent as he and the other survivors accompanied the smoldering Prince across the great grasslands of Jord, the Armsmaster hoping that five uneventful days of riding would be enough to cool off Elgo ere they reached the Dwarvenholt of Kachar.
The column fared easterly for miles as the Sun rode upward across the sky and through the zenith, dropping now toward the western horizon. The land about them slowly changed from prairie to rolling downs, a presaging of the foothills and mountains to come. Now and again an awakening thicket stood across the way, the saplings beginning to green with the quickening of spring, buds slowly swelling, but leaves would not appear for another fortnight or two, depending upon the strength of the Sun. Still, nestled among the grasses, tiny blue flowers peeked out through the winter-yellow blades, heralding the arrival of a new season of growth that would continue until the frosts of fall.
Night found the Harlingar camped alongside a thickset bare-branched coppice, the horses picketed, a ward posted, and a small fire burning to press back the shadows. They had covered some forty miles of open land that day: a goodly ride, even for the Harlingar.
As they sat about the blaze, again Elgo spoke of the Dwarves’ claim: “I say to all of you here and now, these grasping Dwarves shall not lay one finger upon any part of the treasure we won. It is ours to do with as we agreed ere we set forth upon our quest. As soon as it is properly assayed, we will divide it into a hundred shares: each of the survivors will receive a share; each of the families of those slain will receive a share; ten shares will go to the Fjordsmen, for in bearing us on our mission, they lost much; the rest will go into the treasury of the Realm of the Jord. But none of it, not a copper, will find its way into the greedy hands of these gluttonous cave dwellers.”
“My Lord,” spoke up one of the Vanadurin, Brade, a blond youth of twenty years who hailed from northern Jord, “these Dwarves, might not they ride to War with us o’er the Dracongield?”
“Hah!” snorted Bargo, a red-faced ox of a Man, yellow-bearded, yellow-braided, leaping to his feet and prancing about the campfire, head wobbling and eyes rolling and hands shuddering as if he were a frightened rank beginner attempting to ride a jolting steed. “Ride to War on what?. . Ponies?”
Bargo’s jobbernowled pantomime brought forth great guffawing laughter among the Jordians, for the thought of short, forked-bearded folk, charging apace upon horselings was too much to bear in silence. Even somber Ruric laughed, his first in many a month.
Midmorning of the second day, the column of Harlingar sighted, caught up with, and passed the grey-flagged, pony-mounted Dwarven emissaries, also making their way easterly, returning to Kachar. As Elgo’s Warband rode past, the Dwarves glared at these thieving Riders, receiving like glares in return. . that is, until Bargo rode alongside the pony train: The oxlike warrior plucked his spear from its sheath and spurred the mount forward, leaning far back over the cantle, with his legs thrust out akimbo. Unsteadily waving his lance in the air while squealing “Ooo! Ooo!” and bouncing all over his saddle, Bargo went jouncing past the Dwarves. The Vanadurin exploded in laughter, while the Dwarven warriors growled in anger, knowing that they had somehow been insulted by this pack of looters, yet not divining the precise meaning of the gibe.
On the third day, the great grey chain of the Grimwall Mountains rode up over the horizon, looming dark and ominous in the distance, though most peaks were still capped with snow, and would remain so until the height of summer. And all that day the column wended up through the foothills, now faring southeasterly. They were aiming for Kaagor Pass, the very slot where nearly four years past, Elgo had slain Golga the Troll.
That evening they camped some fifteen miles from the foot of the col. The next day they would press hard to ride completely through the gap among the peaks; for even though it was spring, still the nights were too chill to fare across the range unless there were a driving need-even in the Kaagor Pass, which cut low through the mountains, remaining open nearly all year long.
At the urging of the Men, Elgo told of his deed: “I had always heard that Trolls were nearly unkillable, though there are tales of wondrous Elven weapons slicing through their stone-like hides as warm knives cutting through butter. And though I had no Elven blade, still, it seemed to me that there must be other ways of slaying these behemoths. So, I rode to the gap in the summer of ninety-nine to set a watch over Golga and see if I could divine a means of ridding the world of his menace.
“Finding him was easy, for I could ride up to his very doorstep as long as the Sun was in the sky. But I had to be long gone from the entrance to his cave ere night fell, else he would sniff me out and run me down. . and Shade and I would fill his cooking pot for a number of meals.
“There was a great round boulder that he used as a door to his lair during the day. I could tell from the scoring on the stone that at night he rolled it aside while hunting for game-deer, mountain goats, wild sheep, a stray merchant train, or other tasty tidbits-and near morning he would return to his hole, haling the great rock back in place.
“For several days I scouted out the lay of the land, seeking a way to slay the monster. His cave bored into a sheer stone bluff rising up the mountain side. Fifty or sixty feet above was a wide ledge, where I thought I might hide to get a look at Golga. And it was while I was thinking on this that my eye fell upon his door, and suddenly the plan came to me. And for the next fortnight of days, I labored as I’ve never labored before.