Baran held up his hands, but quiet was a long time coming. When at last silence felclass="underline" “I would speak with this King once more.”
Again shouts of rage broke out among the Captains, but Clang! Thork stood and slammed the flat of an axe against a pillar, and abrupt silence filled the hall.
Signalling the herald, Baran spoke a few words, and the Châk rushed from the chamber.
As Baran stood to go to the throne room, Thork stepped to his side and softly said, “Brother, take care. Once before we invited one of these vipers into our domain, and our sire is dead as a result.”
Baran merely grunted his acknowledgement.
Haggard, weary, smudged with ashes from burnt trees, Aranor and Ruric stood before the gate. Ruric cleared his throat. “My Lord, I know that we ha’e gone o’er this time and again, yet I stand wi’ the others. I would not enter into the Dwarvenholt, no matter the cause.”
Aranor turned to his Armsmaster. “Ruric, we have lost some thirty-six hundred Vanadurin: to Dwarves, to Drake, to fire. I would lose no more. This be our only choice.”
At that moment, the postern opened and down came the herald, “My DelfLord bids you to enter,” he growled, plainly not approving Baran’s decision.
Turning, he led the two Men up the steps and through the small side gate, and down to the main floor. Twisting through phosphorescently lit hallways, at last they came into the Throne Room, and there was much shifting and rumbling from the assembled Chief Captains at the sight of these intruders.
Aranor approached Baran sitting upon the throne. The Harlingar King inclined his head, acknowledging the DelfLord as his peer. Baran gestured for Aranor to be seated in the chair at the foot of the throne. Ruric stood behind, still bearing the grey flagged standard.
Aranor looked up at the Dwarven King. “My Lord, Black Kalgalath falls upon my Legion every day, slaying with his fire. We have tried returning to Jord, yet he controls the pass through the Grimwall, and nought may cross over without his leave.
“I know that you and I will ever be enemies, for there is that which lies between us that can never be settled except through the force of arms.
“Even so, I have a plan, yet my Men are like unto revolt against me for what I propose. But I deem that we have no choice; a Fire-drake be too much for any to stand against.” Aranor fell silent, pondering his next words.
“And what might be this plan of yours?” asked Baran. “What could cause a Legion to revolt against its own Leige Lord? Why are you here? What is it you ask?”
Aranor cleared his throat. “Sanctuary, Lord Baran. I ask for sanctuary within Kachar.”
The hall exploded in rage: Dwarves cursed and ranted. Some tore at their beards, so great their anger. One Chief Captain cocked his crossbow, ready to spit this thief of thieves, yet he had no quarrels and hurled the weapon to the floor in ire.
Again Thork whelmed the flat of his axe against a stone pillar, and after a while quiet returned.
“I see that your warriors like this plan no better than mine,” gritted Aranor, “no better than do I. Yet we have little choice.
“There be an eld saying:
All must aid
When Dragons raid.
“And the Drake is upon us now. It is a matter of honor that you give us succor, that you yield us sanctuary, for sanctuary has never been denied to one who flees the wrath of a Dragon.”
“Honor!” exploded Baran. “Which among you can speak of honor when your own Men defiled the very flag you now bear?”
“I can, Lord Baran”-Ruric’s voice was quiet, but all in the hall heard him-“I can speak of honor. If I could not, then ye would not now be King o’ Kachar, but instead would lie beside those comrades who accompanied ye on yer mission to Jord.”
For the first time Baran looked at the flag bearer standing in the shadows of Aranor’s chair. “Step forward, Rider, that I may see your face more clearly.”
Ruric stepped to the foot of the dais, and Baran looked long into the features of the Armsmaster, remembering the warrior in Kaagor Pass who had stopped the slaughter of the emissaries, too late for all but Baran.
At last the DelfLord spoke to the assembled Captains: “It seems that I may have spoken in haste, for this one indeed holds honor high. Yet none holds honor higher than the Châkka.” Baran looked square into Ruric’s eyes. “You ask this boon, Man of Jord?”
“I do, Lord Baran,” responded Ruric. “I ask it in the name o’ my Lord and Master, Aranor of Jord.”
“Nay, Man of Jord,” admonished Baran, “I did not ask that you speak in the name of your King, for he is here to speak for himself. Instead I would know whether you ask it in your own name.”
Long Ruric stood in thought, not glancing at Aranor. At last: “Aye,” sighed Ruric, “I ask it in my own name as well.”
Now it was Baran who pondered long, finally growling, “I mislike this plan, for we are engaged in War; yet by the same token, honor demands that all must aid when Dragons raid.”
The DelfLord stood, and so too did Aranor. “Leave me, King of Jord. I will give my answer at the daūning.”
What debate raged among the Châkka is not told, for it is said that the quarrels were long and bitter. Yet in the end, it was Honor that decided the issue. And when the first light of dawn came upon rose-colored feet, the great iron gates of the Châkkaholt swung wide, and inside was massed the forces of Kachar, ready to crush any treachery upon the part of the thieving Riders. Yet all that stood before the gate were King Aranor and Armsmaster Ruric, mounted upon Flame and Flint. Baran stepped forth and spoke to Aranor, his words simple: “Bring in your Men, for we will give you sanctuary.”
A bitter look washed across Aranor’s face, for he did not relish what he was about to do. Yet he raised his black-oxen horn to his lips, and a flat demanding call split the air: Taa roo, taa roo, hahn! [Come in peace!]
Out from the charred forest at the foot of the vale and up through the blackened valley rode weary Men, pressed to their limits. And tiny puffs of darkness whiffed up from plodding hooves as foot met ebon ashes of burned grass. Fourteen hundred or so survivors were all that made their way toward the haven offered unto them. Gaunt were their faces, for they had slept little, had fled much, and had not eaten in three days. Too, the forest water was fouled with the char of burnt trees, and so they thirsted for a clean drink. And lurking behind bloodshot eyes was fear, for a Dragon raged after them, and they could not seem to escape.
Up unto the head of the vale they rode, up unto the courtyard. Dismounting, they led their horses toward the open gates, toward safety. And with ill grace and deep rancor the Dwarves resentfully stepped aside to let these thieves enter their strongholt. Setting an example, Aranor was the first to cross the threshold, leading Flame, and right behind came Ruric and Reynor, leading their mounts as well. Then came the bulk of Aranor’s Legion, and they eyed the Dwarves with hatred and suspicion. And as the first stepped in among the scowling foe:
RRRRAAAWWWW! Black Kalgalath thundered into the vale, shouting his rage, flame spewing, wings hammering. Down toward the Châkkaholt he arrowed, down toward the now-fleeing Men and Dwarves, and his breath raked across the Men, burning them, and their dying shrieks echoed among the crags of the Grimwall. Wheeling, turning, back came the hideous Drake, his ebon scales aglitter in the rudden rays of the rising Sun.
FHOOM! Flame spewed upon the screaming Men, a jet of fire whooshing into the opened gates, and Châkka died in its blast.
Frantically, the Dwarven Host turned the great mechanism that closed the portal, and slowly the gates ground to. Men ran pell-mell into the shutting entrance, and horses scattered in unbridled panic, some darting inward, others scudding down the valley.