“Finally, all was ready, and I used that day and the next to hunt deer, slaying three all told: the bait for my trap.
“When night next descended and Golga rolled aside his rock, he found waiting for him three gutted deer, right on his front stoop. He squatted on the spot, sniffing his next meal, perhaps checking for poison.
“But it wasn’t to the meat that he should have been looking for the trap; instead it was above him, for ’twas then that I rolled a mighty boulder off the ledge to come crashing down atop him. Hai, crunch! went his bones, for e’en a Troll cannot withstand a blow such as that.
“Well, lads, that was the end of Golga, squashed flat ’neath the boulder that it took me the previous fourteen days to maneuver into position, a labor that nearly killed me with the doing of it.” Elgo’s glittering eye swept across the admiring faces ’round the campfire. “Be there any questions?”
“Did you explore his cave, my Lord?” asked Roka, stroking his red beard, his own blue eyes glistering in the firelight.
“I did, and a fouler den you would not wish to see,” answered Elgo, shuddering with the memory of it. “Littered with bones, it was. . bones of all types. . things I do not wish to remember. Too, there were crude utensils, and a bed of hides. But nothing of worth. . Ah fie, let us speak no further upon it, for it was a most vile place, a place I would rather forget.”
The next morning the Harlingar rode up into Kaagor Pass, and near the crest they stopped and dismounted, and Elgo pointed out the Troll’s den. Before the black opening lay two halves of a great boulder, split in twain from its shattering fall. Some fifty or so feet above could be seen the lip of the ledge Elgo had used in the slaying of the great Ogru. To one side of the dark hole another boulder stood: Golga’s door. Reynor stepped to the split rock, marvelling at the size of it. How one man could have rolled it into position along the ledge above, the young warrior could not imagine.
“Levers, Reynor,” Elgo answered his Guard Captain’s question. “Poles and wedges I used, rolling it a foot at a time, setting wedges to keep it from rolling back. When I first espied it, ’twas already standing along the ledge, at that far end. . see. . yes, there. Had the rock not been there to begin with, then there would have been no way that I could have done it.
“And when I actually levered it off to come down upon the Troll, I thought that I would split a gut, for it would not move at first. Yet at last I pried it loose, and down it came. See, there is one of Golga’s own bones still trapped under.”
Reynor peered at the knob of a huge bone protruding from beneath the fractured rock, perchance a thigh, and a puzzled look came over his features. “Hola! How is that these bones do not crumble under Adon’s Ban?”
“Troll bones and Dragonhide, lad!” exclaimed Ruric, who had been standing beside Elgo. “Just where d’ye think that oath comes from? I mean, folk don’t say ‘Troll bones and Dragonhide’ just to be clever. ’Tis from the fact that both Troll bones and Dragonhide be such that the Ban holds no sway o’er them. Though his flesh crumbled under the Sun, these bones o’ Golga the Troll ha’e resisted the Ban for three years now, and will continue to do so. . just as will Sleeth’s hide!”
Elgo quickly glanced toward his horse, Shade, at the naming of Sleeth, though the Armsmaster saw it not. And Reynor, nodding, asked, “Well if they survived, where are the rest of Golga’s bones?”
“No doubt some be still trapped ’neath,” answered Ruric, squatting down and peering under the shattered boulder. “But I deem that those exposed ha’e been gnawed away by rats and such.”
“How even a rat could bite upon dead Troll is beyond me, Old Wolf,” growled Elgo, remembering the stench.
“Death’s scavengers make no distinction, my Lord,” responded Ruric, “for all be grist for their mills, be it Man, Troll, Elf, Dwarf-”
At the mention of Dwarf, Elgo cast a look back at the way they had come, as if seeking to see whether or not Baran was in sight. “Let us begone from here, for I have business with the DelfLord of Kachar.”
And so, down from the pass they came, eleven Vanadurin, the battle standard of the Harlingar snapping in the breeze.
Near noontide of the next day, the fifth since setting out from the castle, the survivors of the raid on Blackstone rode out of a thick stand of silver birch, the last trees of an upland forest bordering the foot of a wide vale cupped by towering mountains. Before them stood a Realmstone, marking the boundary between the Châkkaholt of Kachar and the northeasternmost marge of Aven, the Dwarven obelisk pointing skyward, its runes plain for all to see. They had come down from Kaagor Pass, having ridden through the great chain of the Grimwall Mountains, and turned rightward, southwesterly, and had fared across the high wold and through the wooded land thereupon, the trees still clothed in winter dress, though buds burgeoned for spring. And now they had come nigh unto their goal, for the iron gates of Kachar stood at the upper end of the vale.
“There it be, my Lord,” growled Ruric, pointing. High up, where the floor of the northward running valley met the wall of the westerly mountain, stood a black opening. Down from this gape, a tradeway wended, disappearing from sight now and again, hidden by shallow folds in the land, only to reappear and continue southerly, until at last it was gone from the vale and into the upland forest.
“I see it, Armsmaster,” returned Elgo, his one eye alight with fire. Spurring Shade, forward rode the Prince, followed by his entourage, the column riding out from the woods and canting down the slope and onto the open land.
Down across the vale they fared and up again, coming to the roadway leading unto the gates, turning their horses along this route.
Brak stood at the worktable, a leathern apron over his clothes. Small tools were scattered before him, and in his hands he held a work of silver, inspecting it closely. His concentration was broken by a Châk herald rushing into the chamber, the youth’s face flush with the news he bore. Setting aside the silverwork, Brak turned and motioned the herald forward.
“DelfLord”-the messenger stepped before Brak-“Men ride horses within the vale, eleven be their number, bearing the flag of Jord, it seems.”
“Hah!” barked the black-haired Châkka leader, pulling the work apron from him. “They come to arrange for the return of our Drake-stolen property. Assemble the Chief Captains in the Hall of State. Thork, too. We shall greet these visitors properly.”
As the herald rushed through the doorway, Brak called out: “Baran and the others ride with the Men, do they not?”
The messenger stopped and turned. “Nay, DelfLord, they do not. The Men come alone.” Pausing to see if there were aught else Brak would say, then seeing that there was not, the herald rushed on.
Puzzled at this unexpected news, Brak stepped to the wall where hung his black-iron mail and tunic and raiment of state, a thoughtful look upon his face.
Hooves ringing upon polished granite, up and onto the great open foregate courtyard rode the Vanadurin, fetching up against a low set of wide, broad steps leading up to another broad stretch of polished granite passing through the mighty iron gates, the portals themselves opened wide, pressing against the stone flank of the mountain towering above. Down stepped Dwarves, some taking the reins of the steeds, others standing by to greet the Harlingar. Dismounting, the Vanadurin slung shields across their backs, and girted themselves with sabers and long-knives, taking on the aspect of armed and armored warriors.
“I would speak with Brak,” announced Elgo bruskly, un-lashing a roll of cloth from behind his saddle. “Tell him that Elgo, Prince of Jord, Slayer of Sleeth and Liberator of Blackstone would have words with him.”
As they turned to enter the Dwarvenholt, “Steady, my proud Prince,” said Ruric in a low voice, casting a meaningful glance Elgo’s way. But if the one-eyed Prince heard him, he gave no indication of it.