Baran arose before dawn, a sense of doom urging him to set forth now. Hurriedly, he and the last Châk on watch awoke the others, and they broke camp, saddling up the ponies, stowing their gear. Quickly they consumed a meal, feeding the steeds as well. Then they rode into the gap, false dawn faint in the sky. Up along the stony way they travelled, the air about them chill. An hour they fared, and the sky to the east turned pink through orange and then to blue as the hidden Sun came up over a distant horizon unseen beyond the towering flanks of the Mountains of the Grimwall. And deep in the slot of Kaagor, pony hooves clicked upon rock, and the light of the day seeped down toward the shadows, slowly driving them back into the dark cracks whence they came.
At the crest of the pass, the Dwarven column passed before a dark opening upon the right: it was the empty Troll hole of Golga, Ogru of Kaagor.
“So it was this same Elgo who slew Golga, eh?” grunted Bakkar, the Châk now riding near the head of the column.
“Aye,” growled Baran, “by trick! Just as Sleeth was killed-also by trick.”
“Had we taken on the task,” declared Odar, “we would have done it with honor: by Châkka Troll-slaying squad.”
“Hai!” barked Baran. “Many axes are needed to seal a Troll’s doom, for their hides are like unto stone, yet as we have done in the past, so could we do now. And it would be no trick that would lay the Ogru by the heels. Instead it would be Châkka steel!”
On past the hole clattered the ponies, beginning the descent down the far side of the pass.
Long they rode, another five hours or so, stopping occasionally to take care of the needs of steeds and Châkka, yet Baran always feeling the urgency to press on, for a doom seemed to prey upon his mind, though he could not fathom what it might be.
It was mid of day when the Dwarven column came to the southeasternmost extent of Kaagor Pass, and as they neared the exit. .
“Lord Baran, Men on horses come,” grunted Odar, pointing a gnarled finger down the way.
Baran looked, and up the entrance into the pass fared a column of riders. It looked to be the thieving Riders, yet the one-eyed Prince did not seem to be among them.
Slowly, the ponies stepped down along the trail toward the Harlingar, and the horses stepped upward toward the Dwarves. And as the two columns neared one another, of a sudden the col echoed with the challenge of a black-oxen horn, and a rider burst forth from the ranks of the Vanadurin.
At dawn, the Harlingar broke camp in the upland forest bordering the marge of the Grimwall Mountains. It was the morn of the day after Elgo and Bargo had been slain. And although the Harlingar had camped when yestereve had fallen, they had gotten little or no rest, for anguish filled their hearts, and thoughts of vengeance occupied their minds: Elgo was slain! And these grasping Dwarves had been his murderers! Yet there was little they could do, nine against hundreds.
And now it was the next day, and the funeral train of the Vanadurin rode onward, the Men at times weeping in frustration and distress, raging at the Dwarves while at the same time mourning their lost comrades, the bodies now wrapped in the waterproof cloaks of their former owners. Long they rode such, slowly wending their way among the trees, and it was near mid of day when they came again unto Kaagor Pass. Red-eyed with grief, they made their way once more into the gap through the Grimwall Mountains, this time travelling in the opposite direction.
In the lead, Reynor stiffened, and called out to the others, his voice filled with hatred: “See who comes.”
Riding down toward them upon ponies fared Baran and his team of negotiators, bearing a familiar grey flag, heading for Kachar.
Stepping their horses up the trail, the Harlingar watched the Dwarves come onward. In the rear of the Vanadurin column, Brade unsheathed his lance, couching it as if for battle. Casting his eyes at the enwrapped corpses draped across the backs of their steeds, “This is for you, my Lord,” he whispered. “This is for you, Bargo.” Then “Yah!” he spurred his mount forward, lance lowered, aimed at the forefront of the oncoming Châkka. And he blew a blast upon his black-oxen horn, Raw! Raw! Raw! the ancient sound of the charge. Past the other Harlingar he hurtled, thundering up the way, horn blaring, running death upon horseback.
“Hold!” yelled Ruric as the youth charged forth, but to no avail, for Brade was past reason.
The Dwarves unslung their weapons as horse and rider in twenty running strides hammered across the space between and crashed into their ranks, the hard-driven spear shattering upon impact, spitting a Dwarven warrior. Swiftly, Brade’s saber flashed from its scabbard, and he chopped downward at another, only to be felled by a quarrel through his breast.
Now Vanadurin charged forward, lances lowered, their own horns belling: Raw! Raw! Raw!
“Hold, by damn, they be under a grey flag!” Ruric shouted, and raised his own horn to his lips, sounding recall-Hahn, taa-roo! Hahn, taa-roo! — to no avail, for the signal was lost among the knelling calls of the bugling charge. . and then the battle fury was upon the Harlingar, and his horncry was not heard above the din of combat.
With the shattering sound of steel crashing into steel, the Vanadurin whelmed into the ranks of the Dwarves, spears punching through chain even as answering quarrels flew through the air to pierce mail. And amid screams of death, Dwarves were felled by the numbers, but so too were Vanadurin, brought down by crossbow bolts, as was Brade before them. Yet, the lances of the riders and the mass of the horses and the fury of the charge were simply too much for Dwarves upon ponies to withstand. And swift was the slaughter, for seemingly in but a trice, four surviving riders faced but one Châk afoot. And this one would have died as well but that Ruric rode between the lone Dwarf and the four Harlingar, knocking spears aside with his own, shouting, “Stand down! These be emissaries!” his voice finally heard.
Reluctantly the Vanadurin haled back on their steeds, obeying the Armsmaster at last, though their blood yet ran fever hot.
Ruric swung his horse about, facing the lone surviving Dwarf. ’Twas Baran, and he looked up in hatred at the tall Men on their tall horses. “You have no honor,” Baran’s voice lashed out, “for we were under a grey flag. But now I know it be too much to expect a Rider to understand what honor means. Yet I will give each of you a turn at redeeming yourselves: Which of you will meet me first in single combat? Crowd not forward, for you each shall have your chance.”
His face darkening with wrath, Reynor began to swing his leg over his saddle horn, preparing to leap down from his steed and take Baran up on his challenge. “By damn, I said hold!” roared Ruric, glaring at the youth, breaking through the young Man’s shell of anger; reluctantly, Reynor swung his leg back over his saddle.
Again Ruric looked down at the fierce Châk. “Know that our two nations be at War, Dwarf, for your kind ha’ slain our Prince. Yet know this too: that we be merciful.” Ruric gestured at the battleground. “Gather up yer dead, as we shall gather up ours, and hie unto yer hole in the ground and prepare, for we shall return to extract a full vengeance against ye and yers.”
And so it was that when the Vanadurin rode down out of the pass, they bore six dead, slung across horses.
So, too, did Baran fare unto Kachar, a string of nine slain warriors in his wake. And when at last the hooded Dwarf rode unto the gates with his cortege of ponies bearing the dead, all the way up the vale and to the Châkkaholt itself he could hear the mournful sound of the funeral bell slowly tolling out a dirge of death: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom! And he choked upon his grief, for then it was that he knew that Brak his sire was dead, and that he, Baran, was the new DelfLord of Kachar.