Now Baran clenched the haft of his axe, his knuckles white with anger. “You cannot invest honor unto a thief merely by calling him a Liberator, merely by naming him Sleeth’s Doom, for by any name he is still a thief. If you would name him true, then Foul Elgo, you mean; Elgo the Japer, you mean.”
Baran flung up a hand to stay the angry words springing to Aranor’s lips, the Dwarf continuing: “Heed! If you would restore honor unto your nation, return to us that which is ours by right, for then and only then can you claim to be anything other than a nation of thieves.”
“Grasping Dwarf”-Aranor’s voice was low, dangerous-“if you would have the treasure that you abandoned and my son and his comrades won, then you must wrest it from us. And if you somehow could succeed in taking it from us-something that even in the wildest stretch of an addled imagination is still inconceivable-then all nations upon Mithgar would revile you, for it is ours by right of conquest, by right of salvage, by whatever name you may call it. By any measure, it is not now your property and has not been for centuries.
“Too, I would give you some advice, though you are not likely to listen, but still I offer it: if you would save gold in the future, then by damn fight for it instead of running and hiding and abandoning all claim; and never, never, let your greed o’errule what is right, for that leads to the path of utter destruction by the Just.”
All the time that Aranor was speaking, Baran’s face grew darker and darker with rage. “You speak of that which you name true, which you name Just, yet I see that at your right hand you depend upon one who violates the grey flag, O Mighty King of Jord,” gritted the DelfLord, his eyes locked upon Aranor’s, his barb accurately cast, striking home, for Reynor could not bring his gaze to bear upon the Dwarf. “But it surprises me not that this transgressor is in your company, for I deem all Riders to be chiselled from the same defective stone.
“Hearken! You speak as if that which our labor won was your property merely because you took it from a Dragon thief. But thieves stealing from thieves does not alter the fact that the property does not and never will belong to the last thief holding it.”
“By Adon, Dwarf,” exploded Aranor, “we are not thieves stealing from thieves! We are warriors who slew a monster, and took by right of conquest that which you abandoned ages agone. It is your greed for gold that drives you to such insane claims. It is you who would be the thief. But, by damn, if you would have that trove, then you’ll have to slay every last one of us to get it!”
“Just so, Rider! Just so!” Baran’s face was black with wrath. “And that is what we intend. Right here!”-he raised up his axe and violently thrust the iron beak down into the earth at his feet-“Right now!”
Aranor ground his teeth in rage. “So be it.” His angry eye swept upward across the sky. “Yet, Dwarf, not today, but rather on the morrow’s dawn.”
Baran’s answer jerked out through his own clenched teeth as he wrenched his axe from the soil. “On the morrow’s daūn.”
And as the Dwarves spun aheel and stalked upward toward the dark iron gates of Kachar, the Men wheeled their horses about and galloped down and across the vale, hieing unto the silver wood upon the distant slope.
“I chose the dawn because the Sun will be in their eyes”-Aranor’s shadowed gaze swept across the faces of his commanders-“offsetting their advantage of the high ground.”
It was dark, and they stood about a small field table, a sketch of the vale before them, illumed by lantern. During the day, scouts had ridden the morrow’s battleground, and every inch of the valley was represented on the chart, each special feature well noted-all the knolls and swales; hummocks; streams, down to the smallest rivulet; large boulders; places upon the mountain slopes where archers could gain vantage; tracts where horses would be slowed, and those where they would fly across the terrain; and other such needed battle knowledge-the Vanadurin scouts had marked it all.
And now the King and his commanders carefully studied the plat, noting where advantage could be gained and lost, given the actions of the enemy they faced. Long into the night they schemed, strategies and tactics bandied back and forth, trying to anticipate every move of friend and foe alike; and all about them encamped Men waited, tendrils of smoke threading upward from their small campblazes, glimmers of light in the darkness. Gathered into rope pens, horses stood quietly, munching upon fodder, stamping now and again, some nickering softly, a pale Moon overhead. And out on the perimeters, sentries stood alert, watchful eyes sweeping past the argent boles of the silver trees. And in the end, only these warders stood awake, for all others at last succumbed to weariness, many tossing restlessly, falling into dark dreams of the coming conflict.
It was much the same in the Châkkaholt of Kachar.
When dawn crept upon the land, on the western mountain slopes the great gates of Kachar swung wide, and Dwarven warriors issued forth in what seemed an endless stream. Down into the swale they marched, down before the gates, spreading out across the northern reach of the valley, the tread of their steps striking hard upon the earth. Black was their mail and glittering their hammers and axes, and light shone brightly upon their bucklers. In the fore strode archers, intricate crossbows in their grasps, quarrels at hand in hard leather quivers. And among the vanguard marched DelfLord Baran, a black standard with crossed silver axes proclaiming the Dwarf King’s place.
On the slope at the foot of the vale Aranor sat astride Flame and watched. To his right sat Reynor, the battle flag flying from his standard. Flanking them to right and left were the Harlingar commanders. And behind, in long rows, sat rank after rank of Vanadurin, pennons cracking in the breeze, the Host of Jord.
“My Lord,” said Vaeran, “they form a square, reserves in the center. Two thousand I deem to be their numbers. Their sunward flank be on the edge of the scree; it will be hard, mayhap impossible, to round on them from that quarter.” Vaeran spoke of what appeared to be an old rockslide that had tumbled from the steeps of the mountains hemming the vale, leaving a jumble of stone that a horse could not negotiate at speed. And the Dwarves now used the mass of talus to ward their sunward flank, nullifying Aranor’s strategy of attacking from out of the slanting bright light.
“Then, m’Lord,” boomed Einrich, “I suggest we take them head on.”
“There is this, Aranor”-Gannor’s firm voice cut through the air-“they take up a stance where the vale be strait. But see, their left flank: it is somewhat in the open. I deem with but a slight smile from Fortune, we could bring a brigade to bear upon it.”
“Then it would be we who would attack with the Sun in our eyes,” Richter observed. “Yet I think it a sound plan, for we may break their square. Let my brigade take on this task.”
“So be it,” ordered King Aranor. “Richter on the left, swinging ’round to take their flank. Einrich in the center, a head-on charge. Vaeran to the left, between the two. Hrosmarshal Gannor on the right.”
“And you, m’Lord,” queried Vaeran, “where will you ride?”
“Why, square in the center, Reachmarshal,” answered Aranor, “with Einrich’s brigade.”
“Hah!” barked Einrich, chortling, his great bulk jiggling with mirth. “We shall make these gold lusting Dwarves sing a different tune, my King.”
“Just so, Einrich,” responded Aranor. “Now, Commanders, inform your Captains of the battle plan.” Gripping his black-oxen horn in his fist, he raised it up. “We ride upon my signal.”