Zzzaakk! A crossbow bolt buried itself in Bargo’s chest, the oxlike warrior dead even as he struck the stone, his arms and claw-bent hands still outstretched to grasp Thork, falling mere inches short.
Thork looked down at this dead thief at his feet, the Dwarf saying not a word. All about the Vanadurin came the metallic rustle of black-iron chain mail as cocked crossbows were raised, quarrels aimed at every heart.
“Hold!” Ruric’s voice split the silence, the Armsmaster still kneeling, still clasping Elgo unto him. “We shall take our slain wi’ us, back unto our Land. Yet list to me, Dwarves: Ye need not come unto Jord for War, for instead the Vanadurin will meet ye upon the fields at yer very gates. Prepare yersel’s, O Dwarves, for ’tis we who be coming to avenge our dead.”
Ruric stood and hoisted Elgo over his shoulders, blood running asplash down the Armsmaster to splatter upon the white stone floor. Young Kemp and Arlan raised up Bargo between them, and all the Harlingar started for the exit, while before them a herald cleared the way.
And as they came out upon the steps and down unto their horses, behind them a dolorous bell began clanging out a slow, deep death knell, telling one and all that Brak was dead: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom! And everywhere that Dwarves heard the sound they cast hoods over their heads, for they were in deep mourning. Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!
Weeping, the Harlingar tied the bodies across horses: Elgo’s corpse upon Shade; Bargo’s upon his steed, Runner. And the desolate yet enraged Vanadurin mounted up and rode away from the iron gates of Kachar, and all the while behind them a bodeful bell tolled death: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!
CHAPTER 21
Early Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
In wrath, the Châkka emissaries rode out from Jordkeep, heading for Kachar. It was midafternoon when they set forth, midafternoon of the same day that their first-claim on the trove had been rejected by Elgo, the day that negotiations had fallen into ruin. And so, enraged, they rode out from the keep, even though evening drew nigh, for clearly they would choose to spend the night upon the open range rather than spend one single moment more in the company of looters and thieves. How such Folk as these Riders could have heroes’ songs sung in their honor was entirely beyond Baran’s comprehension. After all, heroes were honorable, yet of a certain, this Elgo was a despoiler.
“Kruk!” burst out Baran in rage, slamming fist into palm, his face dark with anger. “These Riders are plunderers!”
“Aye,” growled Odar, the red-bearded Châk who, during the failed parley, had shouted out that the bards were wrong about the number of times the Châkka had tried to retake Blackstone. “By damn, we should have used our axes to shorten the height of that looter Elgo.”
“Mayhap you are right, Odar,” responded Baran, “yet we will see what it is my sire would have us do about these pillagers. Even so, it would give me great satisfaction to wipe the sneer off the face of that one-eyed thief. . and to do it with my axe at that.”
Baran’s remarks brought grim smiles to the faces of the Châkka, and they rode onward; yet even though they smiled, anger seethed in their hearts, for they could not banish from their minds’ eyes the image of Elgo scoffing at their legitimate claim, the Man actually denying that Blackstone and the treasure was the rightful, the true, property of the Châkka.
Slowly the Sun slid downward toward the horizon, shadows from the isolated thickets reaching out over the broad prairie toward the distant downs to the east. And across this greening range fared the pony train of the Dwarves. And when night fell, the Dwarves camped upon the wide flat land alongside a solitary coppice, the gentle hills still lying some few miles away. They had covered five leagues that afternoon alone, fifteen miles all told; yet even though that was a goodly stretch for the ponies to have journeyed in but half a day, still, Baran was frustrated at the time it would take to come unto the gates of Kachar. By land, just over sixty leagues lay between Kachar and Aranor’s castle, one hundred eighty-one miles, a journey of some eight days’ duration for the sturdy steeds of the Châkka, if they pressed as hard as Baran intended, twenty-five or so miles a day.
Dawn found the Châkka leader pacing the perimeter of the camp, champing at the bit to be under way. After a hasty breakfast of crue and water for the Dwarves, and grain and water for the ponies, at last the emissaries set forth, still faring easterly. All day they rode at a hard pace, stopping now and again to feed the steeds a bit of grain and to take care of other needs. At times they dismounted and led the ponies across the now rolling land, giving the mounts relief from the burden of bearing Dwarven warriors. But always they pushed onward. And that day they covered just under thirty miles.
The next day, in midmorn, Bakkar called up column to Baran: “Lord Baran, riders overtake us.”
Baran swung about in his saddle. Some mile or so to the rear he could see a train of Men on horses cantering along their trail. “Stand ready,” he ordered the Châkka. “They look to be Harlingar, and we know not what to expect from their kind. Even so, still they are not likely to violate a grey flag.”
Swiftly the Men drew onward, overtaking the Dwarves. And when they were nearly even, Baran could see that it was Elgo in the lead, the Man to all intents and purposes faring to Kachar to deliver his message in person unto the DelfLord.
Now the Men passed, their green and white standard snapping in the breeze. The Dwarves glared at these looters, receiving like glares in return. But of a sudden, one large oxlike Man went bouncing past, legs thrust outward, spear waving ineffectually in the air, his voice squealing in mock panic. And all the thieves broke into laughter, roaring and sniggering as they rapidly drew away.
To Baran’s right, Odar unslung his crossbow, fire in his eye.
“Nay, warrior!” barked Baran. “That they’ve somehow insulted us, there is no doubt. Yet we ride ’neath a grey flag. Do not dishonor it with an ill-conceived act.”
Clenching his teeth in rage, muscles jumping in his jaw, slowly Odar returned his crossbow to his back, his eyes never leaving the retreating forms of these Riders.
The Châkka rode all that day and the next two, going some seventy-six miles, faring upward into the foothills of the Grimwall Mountains.
Early afternoon of the following day, the sixth since leaving Aranor’s castle, found them camping at the northwestern entrance to Kaagor Pass. They had stopped after going but fifteen miles, for they could not ride the full length of the gap ere the deep night would be upon them; and to cross the twenty-one miles of the pass, half of it in the frigid dark, was too risky at this uncertain time of the year, when sudden snowstorms could still rage at these heights. Cursing with impatience, reluctantly they camped, knowing that but two more days would bring them unto Kachar; even so, still they would arrive two days behind the looters who had gone before them.
What has my sire done with this Man who sacked Blackstone? wondered Baran as he lay his head down that night. Overhead the heavens sparkled with stars, capturing his gaze; and slowly the Châk’s thoughts turned to Elwydd, Bringer of Life. Yet even as he contemplated Her place in the hearts of the Châkka, a bright spark of light streaked across the sky. Swiftly, Baran turned his face away from the spangle above, for falling stars foretold of death to come. Hence, the Dwarf did not see when another eight flared in close succession, followed quickly by four more.