Aranor now raised his daughter up and embraced her and kissed her farewell. And she hugged him fiercely and bade him to strike Elgo’s murderers a blow they would never forget, yet above all to remain safe.
And they strode out into the bailey, where awaited the King’s escort of Reachmarshals. And Aranor mounted up on the great stallion Flame, and with his entourage rode out before the gates and among his Host. And a thunderous shout rose up into the air thrice: Hál, Aranor! Hál, Aranor! Hál, Aranor!
And amid a clamorous sounding of black-oxen horns, slowly, like a great long columnar creature, the mighty Host of Harlingar wended out upon the prairie, flanked far and wide by outriders, scouts, dimly seen in the distance.
And atop the barbican, alongside most of the staff of the keep, Elyn watched as the riders and waggons slowly drew away. Then the herds of cattle were driven after, following in the wake of the Host, as was the plan.
If I were but a wee girl, then this would be most exciting. Yet all I feel is apprehension and disappointment: apprehension, for Men ride off to a War from which many will not return; disappointment, for I go not with them.
Long Elyn watched, but at last turned to make her way back into the keep. And she passed among those left behind: for the most part Women and old Men and young boys and girls, too old or too young or too unskilled in the ways of War. Garn! Should a calamity befall this keep, we will be hard pressed to deal with it.
CHAPTER 23
Late Spring, 3E1602
[This Year]
Far to the east and south, on the austral slopes of the Grimwall Mountains, in the Dwarvenholt of Kachar, two brothers sat and spoke of the trove and a treasure that once lay within Blackstone.
“And these Riders, they let you see the hoard?” The speaker was Thork.
“Aye,” growled Baran, now DelfLord of the Châkkaholt. “They paraded us before our stolen riches as would a marauding gang of jeering reavers show their plunder to the victims of their depredations.”
The two of them sat in Brak’s workshop-they still referred to the chamber as Brak’s workshop even though their sire was slain-and prepared for the battles to come.
“And what of the horn? Did you see aught of it?” Thork polished his new-made Dragonhide shield with a soft flannel cloth, the blue-green light of Dwarven lanterns shattering upon the scintillant scales, sparkling and scattering, winging to the eye.
“Nay,” grunted Baran. “Though we looked long and hard at the trove, we saw it not. Yet that does not mean it was not there. It is small, and easily could have been hidden under the piles of silver and gold.”
“Mayhap it is at the bottom of the sea,” mused Thork, “for Tarken said that the Jordians claim most of the hoard had gone to join the Madûks in the Great Maelstrom.”
“Mayhap, Thork. Mayhap.” Baran ran the oiled cloth across links of his black-iron mail. “And mayhap it was destroyed in the dire spume of Sleeth, though Mastersmith Kaor says that it is reputed to be made of starsilver, and even a Drake’s drip would not mar its surface, at least so he surmises.” Suddenly Baran slammed his fist to the table. “Arr! This musing, this speculation is useless! When we bring the Riders down then we shall know, for then we shall recover that which is rightfully ours. . then we shall be certain.”
Silence reigned between them for long moments. “It would not do for that trump of doom to fall into the wrong hands,” said Baran at last, his voice grim.
Of a sudden the door burst open and a grime-spattered scout appeared, his feet ringing upon the stone as he strode forward. Approaching the DelfLord, he bowed. “King Baran, I have come at haste by the secret ways from the northern slopes. The Riders approach the Grimwall. They will debouch from Kaagor Pass by mid of day on the morrow, and their numbers are vast.”
CHAPTER 24
Late Spring, Early Summer, 3E1602
[This Year]
The Sun was passing through the zenith when the Host of Jord debouched from Kaagor Pass, coming down into the woods along the mountain slopes. Out before the army, scouts rode among the trees, faring to flank and fore and sweeping wide, ascertaining that the way was clear, free from ambush and trap.
Nearly five thousand strong was Aranor’s Legion now, for other musterers had overtaken the Host along its overland journey, swelling the ranks by some five hundred more. And this army, riders all, followed in the wake of the scouts and passed among the trees of the upland forest.
Leagues behind, still faring to come unto the pass, rolled the supply waggons, a caravan escorted by a Warband, for the cargo they bore-food and grain-was precious, and it would not do to have it fall into enemy hands. Even so, the Host of Aranor carried enough provisions, in saddlebags and on packhorses, for both Man and steed to exist for a week or more ere the lagging train caught up to the main body.
And even father behind came the cattle drove. The herd would not fare up through Kaagor Pass, but would remain instead in the grass of the foothills upon the northern side of the Grimwall, the stock being slaughtered and dressed out and borne across the range and to the Host as needs dictated.
But it was not upon the trailing supplies that Aranor’s mind dwelled. Instead, his attention was focused on the land before the Host, for in that direction lay the enemy. And his eye kept straying to the flanks, where could come sudden attack. Yet little did he see, for in this place the woodland was thick with pine, and needled greenery barred any distant view, though now and again he caught a glimpse of one of his own outriders.
And through this deep wood rode the Legion, a great mounted army faring among the trees: pine yielding to aspen and silver birch and other upland trees, some now putting forth their new green leaves, the winter dress giving way before the quickening season. Often they would stop and rest the steeds, for the land was canted, and full of folds, and negotiating the terrain was taxing on the horses. Too, they had to wend a twisting course to pass through the crowded timberland.
And the Sun slipped down the sky as they wound among the pines, the day lengthening the shadows behind. Even so, it was not full dusk when the Host came unto the slopes falling down into the vale whose northerly reach rose up to meet Kachar. And Aranor and his commanders sat ahorse in the edges of the upland forest and peered toward the great iron gates of the Dwarvenholt. Yet they could not tell if the portals were open, for the mountainside had fallen into shadow, and no light shone forth from the holt of their enemies. A sudden shiver shook Aranor’s frame, but whether from the chill of the mountains creeping down the slopes, or whether from some unknown portent, he could not say.
As dawn brightened in the sky and the day came full upon the land, the Jordian King and his commanders stood at the edge of the stand of silver birch. Behind them an army encamped within the forest, its perimeters warded by pickets. To the fore a gentle sward sloped down to the foot of an open vale, a vale running northward and rising up to collide with the harsh granite of the Grimwall, the dark stone of the mountains bursting upward from the fettering rock below. And in the distance now could be seen the closed iron gates of Kachar.