Up the steps the Vanadurin were led and through the iron gate, past axe-wielding and crossbow-bearing Dwarven sentries. Out of the noontide brightness and into the shadowed holt marched the Harlingar with their escort, into the blue-green phosphorescent light of Dwarven lanterns bracketed along the carven stone corridors. Down into this maze they stepped, striding toward the Hall of State, where awaited Fate.
They were escorted into a great chamber. Dwarven warriors were assembled within, two hundred or so, each arrayed in black-iron chain mail, each bearing some type of weapon: back-slung, double-bitted, rune-marked axes; warhammers and shields; light crossbows and quivers of quarrels. Helms were on their heads, but unlike the simple leather and steel caps of the Harlingar, with their horsehair gauds or birds’ wings, the Dwarven helms bore fanciful metal figures of legendary beasts, or metal wings aflare.
An open corridor through the Dwarven ranks stretched before the Vanadurin, leading across white marble flooring and to the throne dais, where sat Brak upon a massive and ornate chair of state, carven with gilded symbols. Leaning against the left arm of the throne, a great black axe stood, its iron beak grounded against the dais. To Brak’s right stood Thork, his youngest son, the warrior’s arms folded across his chest.
Ruric glanced at Elgo, and the Prince’s scars flared scarlet at this display of might. But ere the Armsmaster could say a calming word, Elgo strode into the jaws of Destiny, his hard pace ringing upon the marble, his hands unwrapping the bundle he bore even as he walked. Behind him advanced ten Vanadurin.
At last the cloth came free, and Elgo hurled it aside; and now he held in his hands a great swath of iridescent materiaclass="underline" Dragonhide! Marching up to the dais, he stopped; and he held the glittering material above his head and turned about in a slow circle so that all might see. And there came a gasp from the assembled Dwarves, for though none there had ever seen the hide of a Drake, they knew instantly what it was they beheld. Yet they were puzzled, for to all intents and purposes it appeared to be a great bag that this Prince held, hanging down from his high-held hands unto his shoulders; it even had a drawstring.
Facing Brak once more, Elgo lowered the Dragonhide and untied the drawstring and pulled open the top, and turned the bag upside down. Out dropped a single small gold piece, to strike the stone floor ching! and roll to the base of the throne dais, hitting against the foot of the rise tink! to fall face down and lie gleaming in the phosphorescent blue-green glow of Dwarven lanterns.
His scars flaring red with rage, Elgo held the Dragonhide in one hand above his head and spoke to Brak in a loud voice so that all in the hall could hear his words: “ A purse such as this you must make ere you can fill your treasuries with Dracongield; yet beware, for only the brave may pluck this cloth from its loom.” And he hurled the Dragonhide purse down at Brak’s feet and spun about, striding for the exit.
Behind him, Brak roared in fury, snatching up his axe and leaping to his feet, hurling himself toward this arrant treasure stealer. Elgo whirled about, and suddenly his saber was in his right fist, and his shield upon his left arm.
Blang! Axe met shield. Shing! Saber skittered along black-iron chain mail.
Dwarves surged forward, some cocking crossbows.
So too did the Vanadurin take up weapons, falling into a battle square, though they were outnumbered twenty to one.
“Hold!” roared Brak, stepping away, his features black with wrath, but never taking his eyes from the Man before him. “Foul Elgo, Thief Elgo is mine!”
Muttering curses, the Châkka stepped back, blood in their eyes, weapons ready.
The Vanadurin remained in their square.
Now Brak addressed Elgo, his voice spitting in fury: “Come, Jeering Elgo, taste iron.”
Elgo’s scars burned bright with rage, and he leapt forward, saber slashing.
Dring! Brak parried with the helve of his axe, and countered with a forward thrust of the cruel iron axe-beak Dlank! caught by Elgo’s shield.
Shang! Chang! Steel skirled on steel, tortured metal crying out in agony from the fury of those that wielded the weapons. ’Twas axe ’gainst saber and shield, Dwarf ’gainst Man. Brak grasped the black oaken helve with a two-handed grip, right hand high near the blade, left low near the haft butt. And he used the helve to parry Elgo’s saber Thak! while stabbing in return with the steel beak Dank! or shifting his grip to lash the cutting edge in wide sweeping blows Clang! Blang! Elgo fending the axe, slipping the blade along his own.
Dwarves yielded back as the battle raged to and fro before the throne dais, as first one and then the other of the combatants would press the attack; even the battle square of the Vanadurin gave ground before the duel, the Harlingar moving as a unit. Blang! Dlang! Châkka shouted out encouragement, as did the riders, yet neither Brak nor Elgo took notice, fighting on in grim silence.
Quick Elgo bore the brunt of the DelfLord’s blows upon his now-battered shield. Dlang! His reach with the saber was longer, and he pressed Brak back with thrusts and cuts. Shang! Ching!
Steel met steel Chang! Clang! Brak yielding ground. Elgo circled rightward, his saber weaving a swift net of slashing death, a net caught upon a helve of oak, a helve set with a soft brass strip to catch edged weapons. “Châkka shok! Châkka cor! [Dwarven axes! Dwarven might!]” cried Brak, venting the ancient battle cry, echoed by the assembled Dwarves: Châkka shok! Châkka cor! Elgo fought on in silence, but Reynor cried “Hál Jordreich!” giving tongue to the Vanadurin voice, though Ruric and the others watched mute.
Chank! Chang! Both warriors now bled, yet their weapons screamed upon one another. Elgo lunged leftward, avoiding a blow, thrusting upward at the same time. Yet his heel came down upon the glittering golden coin lying in the floor, and his foot skidded out from under him. And as he was falling: Chunk! the axe buried itself in Elgo’s rib cage, blood flying wide. Yet at the very same time, Shkkk! the saber burst through the Dwarven mail, thrusting through Brak’s heart.
The DelfLord fell dead at Thork’s feet.
The axe falling from him, blood gushing uncontrollably, Elgo struggled up and staggered a step or two and collapsed among the Vanadurin, rushing forward to aid him. Ruric knelt on the floor and took the Prince in his arms. Elgo’s eye fluttered open and he looked at the Armsmaster, the youth’s mouth working as if trying to say something. Ruric put his ear next to Elgo’s lips. “Pride,” whispered the Prince, and then he was gone.
The hall exploded in rage, Dwarves surging forward to put an end to these Lord-slayers and looters. But Thork stood up from his dead sire and hurled a raging scream above all others, stepping to one side and whelming the flat of his axe against a stone column BLANG! And the Châkka Captains jerked to a halt, eyes now locked upon the son, leader until the return of Baran.
Thork ground his teeth in rage, and his eyes burned upon the Vanadurin. Thork’s voice grated forth, iron in his words: “Get thee hence unto thy Land and ready thyself for War, for we are coming.” Gesturing at Elgo’s body-“And take that offal with you.”
“Yaaaahhh!” With a wordless yell, Bargo sprang forward murder in his eye, his massive hands raised like claws, claws to rend Thork apart.