And now it was the beginning of the eleventh day since the Host had been gone from the keep, and on this morning Elyn felt a deep sense of foreboding, for she gauged that the Harlingar had stood before the gates of Kachar for at least four days, given the pace of a Vanadurin long-ride; surely the struggle had already begun: even now, Harlingar could be failing in battle, and this Warrior Maiden was not there to lend the strength of her arms.
Shaking her head to clear it of these bodeful thoughts, Elyn looked up from the ledger before her. “Wheat,” she announced to the delegation that had been standing in silence before her, a dozen or so Men, “oats, grain: that will feed both Harlingar and horse.”
“Aye, Princess, that it would, could we break the soil.” The speaker was an elderly Man dressed in the rough breeks and heavy jerkin and thick boots of a crofter. “But the plain truth is, most o’ the Men ha’e gone off to this Dwarf War, and there be no’ enough left to do the tillin’.”
Elyn turned to Mala sitting at the end of the table.
“Are there enough so that the most hale and fit could do all the plowing, and the less fit do the harrowing, and the remaining do the sowing?” Mala’s eye swept across the delegates, noting that some saw what she was driving at. “Can you not join forces in this time of trial, each doing that for which he is best suited, and by joining together doing it all?”
“Aye, Lady, that we might be able to do,” answered the spokesman. “By workin’ all the land in common, ’stead o’ that which be ours alone, it might be done.”
“Then I suggest that you go forth and do so,” responded Mala.
The delegates turned to the Princess, and smiling, she waved them away. And awkwardly saluting this Princess, this leather-clad, Warrior-Maiden Steward of Jord, they withdrew.
When they were gone: “Ah, Mala, you are a jewel!” exclaimed Elyn.
“Nonsense,” growled Mala, though it was plain to see that she was pleased with herself, and pleased as well that the Princess considered her worthy. “They would have come to the same decision among themselves. Crofters have always aided one another. . just never on such a grand scale.”
“Even so, my Aunt, you lend the Court a noble air of wisdom,” Elyn replied, “much needed in these dark times.”
Shuffling the papers before her, Mala cast her eyes down, and the Princess knew that the prim Mala was embarrassed.
“Well, now,” said her aunt at last, “what shall we do about more waggons?”
Sighing, Elyn looked at the tally sheets. “As supplies are used by the Host, wains will come empty. These will return here to be refilled with other cargo, and then it’s back to Kaagor Pass. The trick is to ascertain just how many will be in this continual round, and to determine how many more are needed to supplement those. . ”
It was nearly two hours later when the frantic bugle call sounded from the walls: A-raw, a-rahn! A-raw, a-rahn! A-raw, a-rahn! [A foe, alert!] Dropping her quill pen, papers scattering, Elyn leapt up from the table, her chair toppling to the floor, falling with a crash behind. Snatching up her saber, she dashed from the room, Mala hurrying to right the seat, and gather up the strewn documents. The horn continued to bell.
As the Princess dashed across the bailey, the iron-clad gates of the keep wall were slammed to, the great bar blanging into place, the portcullis rattling down. Glancing up at the sentinel atop the barbican, her gaze followed his outstretched arm, and he was pointing east, up into the sky. And there, hurtling down from the heights came a great ebon shape: ’Twas a Dragon.
Black Kalgalath had arrived.
And all trembled at his coming.
Elyn gained the top of the wall as the mighty Drake whelmed down into the court, the air from his wings booming like thunder. Men blanched with fear, and many ran. Horses shrieked in terror, bucketing and lashing out their heels. Windows and doors slammed to. And the Dragon roared-“RRRRAAAWWWW!”-his voice crashing through the air, so loud that it burst eardrums, and blood ran from nostrils. Windows shattered, and tiles crashed down, and the roofs of stalls fell inward.
Atop the wall, Elyn of Jord clapped her hands o’er her ears and wrenched in pain and fell to her knees clutching her head. And she trembled in fear, for a calamity beyond measure had come upon the keep of the Harlingar, and she knew nought to do to stave it off.
And from the ebon Drake there came a massive sound, a sound like immense brass slabs dragging one upon the other, booming together, belling, grating; and within this hammering din, clangorous reverberations formed into words, speech: “Where is this Elgo Drake Slayer? I would meet him in combat and take my revenge. Where is this Man who would dare to fell one of the Dragonkith? Come forth, pygmy, and meet your doom!”
Silence met Black Kalgalath’s challenge.
“RRRRAAAWWWW!” came his roar again.
FOOSH! A vast jet of flames hurtled from his throat and thundered into the stables, engulfing the mews in unquenchable fire; horses trapped inside shrieked in terror, those in the outside pen hammered through the fence or leapt over the barrier in their fear.
“Elgo,” came the brazen clang, “come out. Face your slayer.”
“My brother is dead, foul Drake, beyond your vengeance.” Elyn’s voice rang out across the courtyard, the words seeming small and shrill.
Black Kalgalath’s mighty head swung about, his yellow eyes fixing upon this Human creature standing atop the fortress wall above the iron gate.
Elyn turned her head aside and thrust a hand out toward the Dragon, tracing the sign of Adon, a sign of warding, within the air, for she had heard that Drake’s eyes would capture the soul of one who was unwary.
Kalgalath’s voice boomed outward: “Who has cheated me of my pleasure? What fool thwarted my revenge?”
“The Dwarves of Kachar,” came Elyn’s reply. “They slew the Liberator of Blackstone; they slew my twin.”
Kalgalath’s hideous visage once again faced the castle. “Aranor of Jord,” he roared, “sire of this Dragon murderer now dead, then would I take my vengeance upon you. Are you hiding in fear? Do you quaver within your halls?”
“Nay, foul Drake”-Elyn’s voice held the timbre of one pushed to the limit-“he stands before the gates of Kachar and seeks a tribute of blood from the murderers of his heir.”
Black Kalgalath swung his face back to Elyn, and she listened to his words in growing horror. “Hear me then, O Sister of arrogant Elgo: He who would presume to slay one of my kind shall suffer, and if not him, then his sire, or his get, or his kith. For now Sleeth’s ledge will be empty come the time of the Maelstrom, and there will be a struggle to see who moves up, and some may even think to challenge me! For this alone would I seek the death of those who cause it, but even moreso would I slay the one who has slain one of mine.