“’Tis the Dragonhide Elgo brought,” growled Ruric.
“Dragonhide or no,’ responded Richter, “he is a nemesis, this wielder of the flashing steel hammer, this bearer of the shatterlight shield.”
“But not invincible, Richter, as you would have him be.” The speaker was Vaeran. “Nay, not invincible. And if we would take the heart out of these gold-grabbing Dwarves, then I say that we must slay him, whoever he is, as well as bring down their King.”
“Mayhap it will come to single combat: Baran and I.” With a long charred stick, Aranor stirred the fire before them. “And as to the one who bears the shield of splintered light, mayhap he is their champion, or one of the royal Line, for I cannot imagine such a token being borne by any other.”
Aranor sat in thought for a moment. “Rach! We were such utter fools to fall into that flanking trap they set for us. And we should have known that they would have pikes awaiting us. Yet in our unmitigated arrogance, we blindly rushed in, instead of thinking.”
“We simply discovered what we should have always known, Sire,” stated Vaeran, “that the foe is cunning. But heed, when next we do battle it is we who shall emerge the victor.”
“But how do we break that square, Vaeran?” Aranor’s question was on the minds of all.
“First the crossbows and pikes, Sire,” answered Vaeran. “This I propose: that we stay just beyond the range of their quarrels and rain arrows down upon them. This should take out their own archers. Pikes, too, if our aim be true.”
Aranor growled. “Garn! But I mislike this plan, Vaeran. It suits me not to stand back and fly arrows at these graspers. Rather would I cleave straight through their heart.”
“Aye, Sire,” responded Vaeran, his sharp features highlighted in the lambency of the flames. “I too would rather cut through the gluttonous foe, yet we saw today that it could not be done.”
Grudgingly, Aranor nodded. “I suppose that once the pikes and bows are rendered useless, then we cut through that square of theirs.”
Ere Vaeran could answer, Reynor came unto the fire and stepped into the ring of light. “Sire, I have the tally.”
All fell quiet, for Reynor bore news as to the numbers wounded and killed.
“Say on,” Aranor commanded, bracing himself for the worst.
“We lost somewhat more than seven hundred, my Lord”-Reynor’s voice was grim-“and nearly three hundred are wounded such that they cannot bear arms. And, all told, just over nine hundred horses were slain, some eight hundred were killed in battle, the rest were destroyed to end their suffering.”
A stunned silence ringed the campblaze. But at last: “Adon. A thousand Men, a thousand horses.” Aranor spoke softly yet all heard him. “All because of the greed of Dwarves.”
“What of the foe, Reynor,” queried Vaeran. “How many lost on their side.”
“The healers are not yet returned from the field, Marshal Vaeran,” answered Reynor. “When they come, then shall we know.”
And out upon the battlefield, Harlingar healers and Châkka alike moved among the dead and wounded, ministering herbs and simples, binding bleeding gashes and cuts, splinting broken limbs, bearing the dead and injured from the field. At times, Vanadurin squatted but paces from Châk, each treating their own, each ignoring the other. And litters shuttled to and fro as the casualties were carried unto their respective places of refuge.
And as they worked, each noted the number of the foe that had fallen. But the Harlingar observed something else, as welclass="underline" as dusk had crept upon the land, additional healers had come forth from the gates of Kachar, bearing phosphorescent lanterns emitting a soft blue-green light; yet whether these new attendants were Dwarves, they could not say, for each of these helpers were guarded by an escort of warriors, and now and then a soft keening could be heard.
The following day a truce was arranged so that each side could bury their dead:
The Harlingar placed their fallen ’neath green turves at the distant foot of the vale, but as was their custom, they mourned not, for War was upon them, and grieving would come later. Too, saddles, bridles, and the trappings of War were taken from slain horses, but the dead beasts were left to lie upon the field of their slaughter. Lastly, a waggon train bearing the wounded set out that day, faring for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond, the less wounded driving the more severely hurt, a few healers accompanying them.
And out before the iron gates of Kachar, the Châkka placed their dead upon great pyres, and all day the flame of the burning flared bright, and a dark column of smoke rose up into the sky. And again, a doleful keening could be heard after the Sun fell into the night.
On the second day of combat, the Harlingar attempted to execute the plan suggested two evenings before. Yet it was virtually ineffective, for the Dwarves had anticipated the Harlingar move, and great pavises were borne out from the gate and set before the ranks, and these ground-supported shields effectively warded the Châkka from the arrows of the Vanadurin. And Aranor gnashed his teeth as Dwarven jeers rang in the vale.
At last, again the Men of Jord mounted a charge, this time bringing the bulk of their force to bear upon the center of the fore of the square. And now the Dwarves fell back, slowly retreating unto the safety of their own gates, and every foot of ground that they yielded was costly to the Harlingar, the toll of battle high.
And when the great gates clanged to, the battle ended; and on this day it was the Harlingar who jeered at the foe, though there was not much by which to claim victory.
Again a truce was called to care for the dead. And the Harlingar buried their slain and mourned not, while the Châkka burnt theirs and wept. And it was at this time that Aranor realized what he had not known before: that the great scorched patch upon the earth nigh the head of the vale when he had first come unto Kachar had marked the place of a funeral pyre, a pyre for the slain emissaries. . or mayhap Dwarf King Brak.
On the third day of strife, some thirty-four hundred Harlingar took to the field against nearly twenty-one hundred Châkka, facing off against one another in a battle they would never fight.
CHAPTER 25
Early Summer, 3E1602
[This Year]
When at long last Black Kalgalath awakened from his fiery dreams, he found himself in his familiar lair. Dark basalt surrounded the great Wyrm: hot, some would say, but not a Fire-drake. Even so, the stone was warm to the touch, the air tinged with brimstone, for Kalgalath’s lair rested within the slopes of an aeons-dead firemountain. And far below churned the molten stone of a great burning caldera, its heat seeping up through the cracks raddling the fettering base of the towering rock cone.
Yet none of this occupied Black Kalgalath’s attention, for his first thought upon awakening was, Sleeth is dead.
The Dragon stirred, uncoiling his great bulk, gathering his mighty legs beneath him, and then he slid forward, ponderously slithering through the gaping crevices that shattered through the ebon stone. Up through the labyrinth he thrust, coming at last to the exit from his lair upon the outer mountain slopes.
He cast his senses forth, to discover that he was alone, and pressed forward into the light of the day, unfearful of the Sun, for Kalgalath was a Fire-drake, and Adon’s Ban held no sway o’er him. And as the great Dragon fetched out upon the high stone ledge, he shone ebon as the night, for he was scaled black-jet, some would say.
All about, the snow-clad peaks of the Grimwall Mountains burst upward, the crests still in winter’s icy grip, though late spring trod the plains below. The morning Sun cast glancing light among the crags, and high overhead, wisps of sulfurous vapor streamed over the lip of the hollowed cavity that gouged down into the peak, a great basalt cauldron forming the roof of Kalgalath’s lair within the dead firemountain.