And Kalgalath whelmed down upon the earth in vale center, and his mighty legs drove like hammers as he rushed up the valley toward the closing doors, fast as a horse and faster he drove, and Men and Dwarves shrieked to see him coming, a giant black juggernaut hurling toward the Dwarvenholt, flame spewing before him.
Toward the gate he came, faster and faster, and Men fought to get inside. Nearer and nearer he came, roaring, flaming, spewing death and destruction.
And at the very moment he hurtled across the courtyard and reached the great iron portal, Boom! shut the gate. Clang! fell the bar.
DOOM! Kalgalath’s massive bulk slammed into the closed portal, but it did not yield.
And Men were trapped outside. And those within could hear the dying shrieks of their comrades.
Kalgalath’s rage was boundless, and after a time of killing, when all without were slain, up to the high slopes above the gates of the Dwarvenholt he flew; and he rent down a great portion of the mountainside to smash into the forecourt below: huge slabs and boulders crashed down, and an enormous ramp of stone piled upward against the portal as the massive rocks thundered atop one another, smashing, splitting, shattering, heaping, until a great slope completely buried the gates and more, standing at twice their height. And when the swirling rock dust settled, the entrance to Kachar lay beneath unnumbered tons of stone. And Kalgalath was well pleased as he stood before the wrack and surveyed his handiwork.
“Now let us see how well these bitter enemies can sleep together in this bed of thorns they have so foolishly made,” hissed the Dragon.
Slithering away from the Châkkaholt, he took to wing, his great dark leathery pinions hammering across the red light of the morning sky, for he had a treasure to wallow in, and his fiery caldera awaited him.
And as Black Kalgalath winged eastward, he paid no heed to the yellow-haired youth at the edge of the burnt forest who sat astride a fleet horse with a remount trailing behind, a youth who stared in wide-eyed horror at what he had just witnessed. And when the Drake had gone, the young Harlingar sat a moment more, his face pale, drained of blood, his message from Elyn to Aranor made moot by Kalgalath. And then he rode up into the vale, up unto the slaughter grounds, and wept to see such murder. At last he turned away from the door buried ’neath a mountainside of rubble, away from the char and blood and victims torn asunder, away from this valley of death, and spurred his steed back through the black ash of Silverwood destroyed, and hied for Kaagor Pass and Jord beyond.
CHAPTER 31
Late Fall, Early Winter, 3E1602
[The Present]
Thork moaned, trying to say something, yet words would not come. His throat was dry and his heart pounding. The swaying Châkian before him slowly stepped to an unheard rhythm, gyring, turning as she danced, the silken veils about her swirling with her movements, her slender hands plucking and dropping the gossamer webs to the polished stone floor. Thork strove to turn his face away, for such a thing could not be until the vows were spoken, until the stones were exchanged, until Elwydd’s blessing was asked for and received; yet he could not, for it was as if he were paralyzed, unable to move, utterly entranced by the lissome female before him, something familiar in her exquisite motion as she stepped to the cadence of the dance. And the innermost veil covering her features was at last reached, and whirling and swaying and stepping in barefoot grace, she swept the diaphanous concealment away from her alabaster face and copper-red hair and emeraldine eyes-Elyn!
“Elyn!” Thork started up from the dream, his eyes wide. “Elyn.”
Beside him, limp and unmoving, lay Elyn of Jord. Her face white, her flesh chill.
Thork looked about, sighting tapestries hanging on distant chamber walls, their patterns vivid in the amber light. Groaning, the Dwarf stood, nearly swooning with the effort, holding onto the wall for support until the blackness encroaching upon the edges of his vision ebbed away. When his sight steadied, Thork limped across the wide stone floor to the far wall, and reaching up, grasped the tapestry with both hands and yanked down one of the wide panels of heavy fabric. Dragging it after, back to Elyn’s still figure he hobbled, cramps knotting the muscles in his calves. Flinging the tapestry down beside her and straightening it out, Thork managed to roll her limp form onto the cloth and toward the center, and then he covered her and himself with the surplus, pulling it atop the two of them.
Working in haste, Thork stripped Elyn’s winter cloak and clothing from her, including her boots, his eyes darting everywhere but at her nakedness; and he began vigorously rubbing her arms and hands and legs and feet, all the while unknowingly muttering underneath his breath, “Do not die, my Queen of Summer, do not die.”
Feverishly he worked, and long, fighting to hold onto the edge of awareness, for he was utterly spent, and a vortex of black unconsciousness sucked at the fringes of his mind, threatening to engulf him; even so, he chafed her limbs briskly, yet Elyn did not respond, and he rubbed harder, expending the last dregs of energy left unto him, and in the end, Dwarven endurance notwithstanding, Thork collapsed, his mind falling down into the spinning darkness within.
When next Thork came to, perspiration runnelled beneath his clothing, sweat slickened his face: in his winter gear he was literally roasting beneath the heavy tapestry. With a start he realized that he was being held by someone: it was Elyn, asleep, unclothed, snuggled tight against him, her arm across his chest, her breathing deep and regular, her face flush with warmth. Quickly, Thork turned away, his countenance reddening, the elusive memory of a half-forgotten dream dancing at the edges of his awareness. Ineffectually, Thork attempted to disengage her arm, preparing to slide out from under the tapestry, for in spite of his weakness, he was embarrassed; yet she moaned and clasped him harder to keep him from leaving, and he did not have the strength to continue. Thork did manage to remove his own cloak and winter jacket, ere lapsing once more into unconsciousness.
Hours later, again Thork awakened. No longer did Elyn press up against him, and when he turned to see her, she too was conscious, and had moved to the limit of the tapestry away from him.
Their eyes met. . and glanced away, avoiding contact.
Groaning, Thork rolled over, turning his back to her. Stiffly, he clambered to his hands and knees and crawled out from under the cloth of the tapestry. He felt as if he had been beaten by a thousand hammers, and he was a long time in gaining his feet. Even then he tottered, threatening to collapse again. . yet he did not. And muttering something about seeing just where in Hèl they had gotten to, Prince Thork stumbled off in search of a host within this Mountain dwelling.
When Thork returned, Elyn was sitting with her back to the stone wall, the tapestry wrapped about her naked body, her eyes lost in musing thought, gently smiling in an abstracted way. And as the Dwarf stepped nigh, the Princess looked up, her eyes lit with an inner secret, her face wreathed with a mysterious emotion dancing at the upturned corners of her mouth.
“Hai!” barked Thork, bearing a silver dipper. “I have found water to drink, but no food. Too, I have found the Wizards’ map, Princess, and if a stranger thing exists, I have not heard of its telling.”