“I like it not, Lord,” muttered the small, wiry, fox of a Man to Aranor’s left, his eyes sweeping up the length of the valley. “It is strait, and they will hold the high ground, and our horses needs must charge upslope. It will slow us, and we cannot bring all our force to bear.”
“Aye, Vaeran,” replied Aranor, his own look troubled. “That much I can see.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Reachmarshal Einrich, swinging his bulk to face Vaeran. “They will be afoot, without our mobility, hence will not have great advantage in that matter.”
“Aye, there is that. Still, I mislike it,” growled Vaeran. “Anytime a horse be slowed, it is not to our avail. Anytime a field be strait, flanking comes hard.”
“Say again what weaponry they will wield, m’Lord,” called Marshal Roth, his northern accent all but unnoticeable.
Aranor turned an eye to Ruric. “Armsmaster?”
“Axes, warhammers, crossbows,” replied Ruric, “those be the weapons we ha’e seen. Too, some bear shields, and wear black chain.”
“Hah!” burst out Einrich again. “Horse-driven lance will make short shrift of shield and chain”-his countenance darkened-“but these crossbows, they be another thing.”
“As we planned, Einrich, our own bowmen will deal with them.” Reachmarshal Richter’s voice was soft, yet there was steel in his words.
“Look, Lord,” hissed Marshal Boer, “there be activity at the badger’s den.”
In the distance, from a side postern high upon the stone of Kachar came a troop of Dwarves, clambering down a carven set of narrow steps leading to the granite forecourt, unslinging weapons and taking up a stance before the great iron gates, a guard of honor.
“Methinks this be their signal, Lord,” gritted Ruric.
“Aye, mayhap you are right, Armsmaster,” answered Aranor. “Call Reynor unto me, for it be time to speak to the grasping foe.”
The Dwarven scouting party returned via a secret gate into the halls of Kachar. Wending through a labyrinthine set of tunnels, they came swiftly to the War Chamber. There, ringed about a large circular table, awaited the Chief Captains of the Châkka Host, DelfLord Baran part of the circle, Prince Thork at his side.
“We count nearly five thousand of the thieves, Lord Baran,” spake the Chief Scout, a young black-bearded Dwarf dressed in the mottled leathers that made him and his band all but invisible in woodland as well as upon slopes of stone. “Spears, bows, sabers, long-knives they bear. Some have shields much the same as that which Jeering Elgo bore.” A rustle of metal sounded as Châkka shifted at mention of this name. “All wear chain. All are mounted.
“They camp within the Silverwood on the east slope, here”-the scout traced a rough circle upon a spread map-“and sentries ward their flanks.”
“You are certain of their numbers, Dakan.” Thork’s comment was more of a statement than a question.
“Aye, Prince Thork”-Dakan’s words brooked no doubt-“we counted them as they fared through the pass, again as they came forth, and then tracked them to the grounds of their camp.”
Thork grunted his acknowledgement, turning to Baran. “Five thousand they number, and we but three.”
“Just so,” growled Baran. “But three thousand or two thousand or just one, still shall we whelm these brigands to earth. Still shall we gain that which is rightfully ours.”
Muttered oaths of affirmation rumbled ’round the table.
Baran cleared his throat as if to say more, yet a black-mailed warrior entered the hall, his hard strides ringing upon the stone as he purposefully made his way to Baran’s side and softly spoke to the DelfLord.
Baran stood. “A crowned Rider and a standard bearer near the gate. It would seem that they come to parley. The dance of Death has begun.”
Baran strode from the chamber, Thork at his side, as sound erupted behind them and warriors scrambled to follow.
The Dwarven gate warders stood before the great iron portal and watched as two riders cantered up the vale: one on a flame-red steed, the Man wearing a crown; the other sat astride a grey and bore a flag, a white horse rampant upon a field of green. As they neared the gate, the flag bearer blew a note upon a black horn, the sound flat and commanding. Still some distance away, they reined their mounts to a halt, and again the note of command sounded from the horn.
In that moment, DelfLord Baran and Prince Thork stepped through the postern and descended down the narrow stair. They paced to the center of the foregate court and peered long at the horsemen sitting in the vale below them.
Baran turned to Thork. “I will go down and speak with this Rider King, and see what he would say.”
“Let me bear your standard, Baran,” entreated Thork, “for I mistrust these Men.”
“Nay, Thork,” responded Baran. “I, too, mistrust them, yet should something happen to me, then you will be next DelfLord. We cannot put both of us at jeopardy, my brother.”
“Baran, it is not that much risk,” countered Thork. “See, the flagbearer wears no weapon, as is the custom of those who would negotiate. It would seem that they have come to parley.”
“Hah!” barked Baran. “You cannot have it both ways, Thork: you cannot at one and the same time declare your mistrust in them, and in the next breath maintain that their intentions are honorable and the risk small. Nay, Brother, I shall go forth with Bolk as my bearer.” Baran turned to the red-haired Chief Captain of the guard and nodded, and Bolk shed his weaponry and took up the battle flag of Kachar, crossed silver axes upon a field of black. And down into the vale they strode, Captain Bolk weaponless and bearing the standard, DelfLord Baran armed with an axe slung upon his back.
Aranor and Reynor sat ahorse midway between the mountain walls and watched as the two Dwarves marched down toward them. The two Harlingar had shunned the road that led up to the gate, deliberately riding up the center of the vale to better survey the likely battleground. Up the long vale they had come, its shoulders narrowing with every stride of the horses. Past the rune-marked Realmstone they had ridden, the strange Dwarven glyphs deeply etched into the dark stone. Up the grassy valley they had come, along a crystalline stream dashing down its center. Past a wide scorch upon the ground they had cantered, a place where a great pyre must have burned not so long ago, yet these two riders did not know what may have occurred thereupon. Up the vale they had hammered, and all the while their eyes had swept across the terrain they passed through, gauging its suitability for warfare, scanning for horse traps, pits disguised. Yet at last they had stopped, somewhat beyond the range of a crossbow, and Reynor had sounded the call to parley. And now the Dwarves had responded, for two on foot came advancing down the vale, one bearing a silver-glinting black flag stirring in the drifting air.
At last the pair of Dwarves came to stand before the mounted Vanadurin, stopping some twenty feet or so upslope, Baran unslinging his axe and grounding its cruel iron beak in the loam, leaning upon the helve.
“My Lord Aranor,” announced Reynor, “this be Emissary Baran, the one who made such outrageous claims upon the abandoned trove.”
“Outrageous-” sputtered Captain Bolk. “This be King Baran, DelfLord of Kachar, survivor of Rider foul treachery, son of slain Brak. And now, who be this crowned thief before us?”
Reynor’s face flushed scarlet with anger, and he would have leapt from his horse but for Aranor’s “Hold!”
Then Aranor turned his face toward Baran and spoke, his words answering Bolk’s question, but it was clear that he addressed the DelfLord and none other. “This so-called thief be Aranor, King of Jord, sire of slain Elgo, Prince of Jord, Sleeth’s Doom, Liberator of Blackstone, and rightful possessor and true owner of Sleeth’s hoard.”