Thork watched the Vanadurin carry slain Elgo from the Hall, and the great oxlike warrior as well. When they were gone, Thork turned unto the body of his murdered sire, taking hold of the saber hilt and wrenching it from Brak’s chest, holding the dripping blade aloft and snapping the steel in twain, hurling the pieces from him. Casting his hood over his head, Thork bent and lifted up the corpse of his father, bearing him out from the Hall of State and leftward down a corridor, turning at last into the great rotunda, where the Châkka of Kachar honored their dead. With him went the Chief Captains, their heads also cowled, in mourning. And as Thork lay his sire upon the great marble dais, the mighty funeral bell began knelling its slow, deep lamentation: Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!
Long moments passed, and there came a rustling from the doorway, and the ranks of the Chief Captains parted to permit ingress of a Châkian: ’twas Sien, Brak’s trothmate, the dam of Baran and Thork. As with all Châkia, she was clothed from head to toe in swirling veils, gossamer light, pale in color, her face unseen. Slender she was, perhaps four feet tall. With great dignity, she paced to the dais, her step light upon the polished granite, and lay a gentle hand upon the brow of her mate. And she began a high-pitched keening, and sank to her knees at the base of the marble platform. And all the Captains fled the chamber, for they could not bear such anguish. Thork, too, retreated from the rotunda, for his mother’s grief was too much to behold.
Doon!. . Doon!. . Doom!
Desolate, the warrior blindly made his way back to the Hall of State. And Thork passed by a great stain of blood-Elgo’s blood-upon the white marble floor as he stepped to the mighty throne. And his eye fell upon the Dragonhide pouch lying at the foot of the carven chair, glittering iridescently in the phosphorescent light of the lambent Châkka lanterns. Enraged, Thork bent over, tears falling unto the stone, and snatched up the purse, hurling it from him. And the Dwarf fell into the seat of the throne, his mother’s cries echoing in his mind. And he wept and cursed the Men who had slain his sire, swearing vengeance. And all the while, the Dragonhide lay scintillating upon white marble.
After a long span of time, Thork arose from the great chair of state. And he stalked unto the glittering pouch and took it into his hands. Jeering Elgo said that this would be needed to collect a treasure; well, by damn, I will use it to do so! The Châk warrior’s mind raged as he fingered the hide, Thork seeing a way to turn the iridescent skin against these looters. Striding purposefully to his own quarters, he retrieved his shield and bore it unto his sire’s workroom. And there he took up his father’s tools and with whelming blows began fashioning a shield cover, a device made of Dragonhide, marking a shield that these Riders would come to fear upon sight, for it would be borne by Thork, son of Brak, whose vengeance would be mighty.
It was two days later, in the early afternoon, that Baran came unto the gates of Kachar. And in his wake trailed nine ponies, each bearing a dead Dwarven warrior, each one a treacherously slain emissary.
In the Hall of State, the new DelfLord summoned his Chief Captains unto him. And amid an uproar of rage, he told of the foul deed done by the Riders upon the Châkka column that bore a grey flag. And he bade the Captains to spread the word, and to prepare for a mighty War of retribution.
And then he went to the rotunda and viewed the remains of his sire, and spoke to his grieving dam, but what they said to one another is not recorded.
And Baran ordered that a worthy tomb be carven to hold Brak’s body, clothed in full armor and raiment of state. And he ordained that his father’s great black axe be placed within the grasp of his sire, and that the broken sword of his enemy, of Elgo, be placed at his feet, as was befitting a Châk warrior who had died in combat.
And he ordered that the slain emissaries be placed upon a huge pyre in the vale before the gate.
For in all of this, it was the way of the Châkka-stone or fire, nothing else would serve: Châkka must be laid to rest within pure stone or be placed upon a fitting pyre. For the Dwarves are certain that fire lifts up the spirits of valiant warriors slain, just as stone purifies them. And they are certain that for a Châk to be reborn, the spirit must be freed from the bonds of Mithgar. Hence the dead must not be interred in soil, for root-tangled sod entraps the shade in the darkness, and mayhap an age will pass ere the soul can escape the worm-laden soil. Stone or fire: nothing else will serve.
On the day of the burning, Brak was invested in the white tomb of holding, and would remain there until his own sepulcher was carved. The keening of the Châkia drove the warriors mad with grief, and they would have stormed from the Dwarvenholt and marched upon Jord right then and there had not Baran ordered them to stand down.
And when the days of mourning were done, the days of War were begun.
CHAPTER 22
Mid and Late Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
Rain fell unremittingly from leaden skies. Across the drenched grey land plodded a column of horses, eleven in all, five mounted, six bearing burdens, drawing nearer to the drizzle-shrouded castle standing at the edge of a low range of foothills. It was late in the day when at long last the weary troop neared the iron-clad gates in the dark stone wall, and atop the barbican a sentry called to those below, and the portals swung wide. Dismounting, the Men led the steeds in through the entryway, coming into the open bailey.
“Armsmaster Ruric-” The Gate Captain’s words juddered to a halt as his eyes fell upon the burdens borne by the steeds: six bodies wrapped in weather cloaks.
Whether it was tears or rain that streamed down Ruric’s face could not be ascertained, yet his voice nearly broke as he said, “’Tis Prince Elgo. And Bargo, Brade, Pwyl, Larr, and Fenn. Dwarf-slain all. Lay them in state in the great foyer, then sound the funeral horn.” Ruric ran the back of his hand across his eyes, and gave over the reins of Flint to a stable hand. “Captain, be the King yet returned?”
“Nay, Armsmaster.” The Gate Captain’s voice was hushed. “He still be parleying with the Naudron, for all we know.”
“The Princess Arianne, and Elyn, be they here?”
“Aye, Armsmaster, in the keep.”
Without another word, Ruric trudged through the downpour and toward the keep, his feet leaden; while behind him, grieving Men followed, leading the horses with their sad burdens. Inside, a page informed the Armsmaster that both Ladies were in Princess Elyn’s quarters.
As Ruric strode up the steps he could hear the silvery glissade of Women’s laughter, and he could do nought but steel himself for what was to come. He entered a room illumed by a crackling blaze in the fireplace, pressing back the chill of the drear day. Bram waddled across the carpet, the child bearing the small silver horn glittering orangely in the amber light cast from the fire. The Princess stood across the chamber, her face alight with humor, Arianne at her side, each Lady glowing with joy at the moppet’s antics. For Elyn had winded the horn for Bram, and now the tot himself tried to coax the clarion call forth from the argent metal, setting it to his mouth and puffing stoutly to no avail, his efforts bringing forth gales of laughter from Elyn and Arianne.