“Aye,” agreed Reachmarshal Vaeran, “this could be but a stratagem to lure us into an altogether different snare, a snare that we will not fathom until it is too late.”
“Bah!” snorted Gannor in frustration. “Tricks, stratagems, snares. I say we take it on the face of what we can see, and not dwell upon the unknown and the unknowable. This be the formation that they have spread into. Let us deal with it and not with phantom arrangements, phantom moves as yet unseen.”
“King Aranor,” cautioned Reachmarshal Richter, “you said it yourself, that these Dwarves be cunning in the ways of War. On the first day of combat they drew us into a trap by showing us a seemingly open flank. Yet, that ‘undefended’ flank was nought but a ruse, and we paid dearly for attacking it without a stratagem of our own to deal with a snare. Let us not fall into that pit again.”
“Yet let us not plan and plan and plan, and be paralyzed into no move whatsoever,” admonished Marshal Boer.
Aranor sat in thought but a moment. “It is true that they could be showing us but a mask, a disguise to be rent aside when we have committed, a cloak covering their true formation, a formation that they will assume when it is too late for us to veer. Aye, this could be a cunning trap of their devising. Yet mayhap the snare is nought but the murderous crossfire of Dwarven crossbows. If that be the case, then we need a plan of attack that will nullify that advantage. And given that plan, we need to contrive a second plan which anticipates the Dwarves’ stratagem should it be a different face they show us once they see our own formation.”
“Rach!” spat Gannor. “Wheels turning within wheels.”
Long the Châkka stood, pole arms and crossbows at the ready, axes resting ’gainst the earth, hammers and shields likewise, and still the Vanadurin moved not. The Sun rode up into the sky, and a stirring among the Dwarven ranks showed their impatience to get on with the slaughter of the thieves. Are these looters shying away from battle? Baran asked himself. No sooner had he formed the question in his mind, when at last, forward came the Harlingar, their riding order curved as a great open horseshoe, a formation that would negate the crossbow crossfire. Baran smiled, for again the Riders had acted as he had judged, and he signalled the bugler, and the horn sounded, resonant and commanding. At the next signal, the Châkka would regroup into their true ranks, and take the looters by surprise.
Aranor heard the Dwarven signal, and nodded to Reynor, and that young Man grasped his black-oxen horn, awaiting the King’s signal, for Aranor and his counsellors had judged what trap the grasping Dwarves had likely laid. And upon command, the files of the Vanadurin would wheel together into a hard-driven wedge aimed at the heart of this treacherous foe.
Gauging the advance of the Harlingar, Baran turned to his herald: now was the time! The herald raised the horn to his lips, but the sound of the call was lost ’neath a mighty roar.
RRRRAAAWWWW!
And down from the sky hurtled a great ebon shape.
Black Kalgalath had come, and fire shot from his mouth, and all that it touched burst aflame.
Agonized shrieks filled the air as Dwarves ran amok, their hair and beards and clothing afire, while others fell to the ground clutching at their throats, gasping, unable to breathe, their lungs seared irreparably. Still others reeled back, clothing scorched, hair singed, yet they had been on the fringes of the flame, escaping the worst of it. And some yawled and ran, fleeing the jet of fire, while a very few loosed quarrels at the great black shape thundering past, wings whelming twisting vortexes of air to smash warriors to their knees, scattering them like leaves before the wind.
Down the vale rushed the Dragon, straight at the Harlingar, fire whooshing outward as it hurtled onward. And horses screamed in terror and ran wild, beyond control. And Black Kalgalath thundered down upon the scattering ranks of Vanadurin, burning all before him. And Men fell to the earth, horses too, charred past recognition.
Up into the sky wheeled the Fire-drake, wings booming, turning, rushing back. And fire blasted into the Harlingar again, and more fell flaming unto the ground as the Drake sped back toward the Dwarves now bolting in the direction of the gates of Kachar.
FHOOM! Flame washed over the fleeing Châkka, and shrills of the dying were lost beneath the hammer of leathern wings.
Up again flew the Dragon, up over the steep-walled mountain at vale’s head, and then turned and dove once more, hurling back down the length of the valley toward the routed Vanadurin. And the Drake’s brazen voice clanged rage, like two massive metal slabs smashing into one another, dragging across one another, rending into one another. And his fire washed down upon horses and Men, and raw screams and harrowed shrieks were rent from the yawling throats of burning victims.
Again and again Black Kalgalath hammered the length of the valley, burning, roaring, his wings thundering. And Men, Dwarves, and horses fell before his Dragonfire. Much of the Châkka Army managed to flee into Kachar, slamming the great gates shut behind. The surviving Vanadurin fled into the woods, scattering widely. And at last the mighty Fire-drake settled upon the crest of a mountain, bellowing his pleasure. Below him, the smoke rose up into the sky as the grass of the vale burned. Yet a more devastating fire was now catching hold, for the Silverwood also was ablaze, the flames sweeping southward.
The next day, Aranor called his Legion together, his great black-oxen horn rallying them unto him. And when they were assembled, he took tally, and hundreds had fallen unto the Drake, and others to the fire of the burning Silverwood ere it had run its course. Defeated, he gave the signal to start the long trek home. And through the charred stumps of burnt trees they wended, aiming for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond. They would leave this land of death, returning to hearth and home.
But that was not to be, for Black Kalgalath was not finished with his vengeance. These Men had presumed to slay a Dragon-Sleeth was dead-and they would pay dearly for that affront.
The Drake came down upon Aranor’s Host just as the Harlingar entered the pass. Again the roaring flames slew indiscriminately, and Man and steed fled before the mighty creature. Back out of the col they fled, scattering among the thick pines, evading at last the Dragon’s rage, though now this forest, too, was aflame.
Two more days Kalgalath harassed Aranor, and upon the eve of the second day, the Vanadurin King, with a Host of less than fifteen hundred Harlingar, found himself back in the vale of Kachar.
Night had fallen. Baran and Thork sat in the Council Chamber amid the gathering of Chief Captains. None knew what had brought Black Kalgalath down upon the vale, nor whether or not it would affect their quest to regain that which was rightfully theirs. Their scouts did report, however, that the Dragon still raged within the region, and that the Harlingar had not yet managed to return to Jord. But Dragon or not, still there was the issue of the War with the Riders, and they pondered the question of how to regain the stolen treasure of Blackstone.
And as they sat in council, the hard strides of a herald rang upon the stone floor of the chamber, the Dwarf purposefully making his way to Baran’s side. Softly he spoke unto the DelfLord. Baran stood and announced: “A crowned Rider and a standard-bearer stand before our gate. They bear the grey flag.”
Shouts of anger erupted from the assembly of Chief Captains, most cursing the unmitigated gall of these thieving raiders who would dare approach the Châkkaholt under the protection of the same grey flag that they had so crassly violated.