Despite the massive battering, the gates of Kachar still stood.
When he deemed that Black Kalgalath was finished, Baran found his voice. “Open the inner portals,” he commanded, calling out his words above the susurration and clack. “Captain Bolk, escort these Riders unto their place of staying.”
And with a distant clatter of gears, the great gates at the interior end of the vast assembly hall began to swing wide, revealing a broad shadow-wrapped corridor stretching beyond. When the inner gates stood full open, down into the strongholt of their enemy went the Harlingar, down into a maze of stone-hewn tunnels, down into the bowels of the mountain, down into Kachar, led there by fierce Châkka warriors, the implacable foe. And as the remnants of the Vanadurin Host wended deeper and deeper into the burden of the stone, woeful legends of the underworld skittered through their minds, and chary eyes searched the gloom for unknown, lurking threats, and they wondered if any of them would ever again see the grassy plains of Jord.
“Kruk! but I mislike these Riders being within,” railed Thork, pacing the length of the chamber and back again. “It is as if we have taken a viper unto our bosoms.”
The gathered Chief Captains rumbled their agreement.
“Aye,” growled red-haired Bolk, addressing Baran. “Prince Thork has the right of it, DelfLord. Already these snivellers seek to heap guilt upon us all for the deeds of the Dragon. The next one of them who says we slammed the gate in fear, I will see that he never speaks such lies again.” The Châk warrior thumbed the edge of his axe, resentment smoldering deep within his dark eyes.
Baran sat at his place at the great round table, staring at its polished stone surface. When Bolk fell silent, the DelfLord looked up. “I like it no more than any that these looting Riders reside within, yet Honor demands it, thieves or no. A Dragon raids, and we have all seen and heard what a Drake’s wrath will do. Just why Black Kalgalath has taken it upon himself to bring death and destruction to our very door, I cannot say, yet he has done so.”
Baran turned to Dokan, Minemaster. “We must see what it is that the Dragon has done to our gates. They will not open, and I suspect that he has blocked them from without by pulling down stone from the Mountain above. On the morrow, Minemaster, I would have you take a work force out through the secret portal at vale’s head and begin the task of removing the stone, if indeed that is the case.”
“Aye, Lord,” replied Dokan, an elder Châk, his white beard and hair shining blue-green in the phosphorescent glow of the flameless Dwarven lanterns. “I will take a hundred or so: hammerers, drillers, haulers. If more are needed, I will see that they are fetched.”
Baran turned to Bolk. “Captain Bolk, that someone must stand guard over the Men cannot be denied. It has fallen to your Company to do so. You and your warriors are like to hear many lies within their quarters, many insults, Chief Captain, yet I ask you to forbear, to hold your temper. We know the truth of it: It was I who ordered the gates closed. It would not do to have a Drake within Kachar. If I had not done so, then there is a chance that Kachar would have fallen to a Drake just as Blackstone did sixteen hundred years apast. It was fear of this as well as dread of the Dragon that caused me to shut the entrance to Kachar, and so the Riders have something in their favor when they say that I closed the gates out of fear.”
“But that is not cowardice as the Riders claim,” protested Bolk. “Only a fool would stand before a charging Drake.”
“As they say Prince Elgo did,” muttered Thork.
“Elgo! Pah!” The name came off Bolk’s tongue like an oathword, a sentiment echoed by the other Chief Captains, words of frustration and rage rumbling about the chamber: Loose-tongued Riders. Just one word from any. .
At dawn of the next day, Dokan led a company of delvers out through the secret portal at vale’s head. Across the valley along the foot of the butte toward the foregate courtyard they marched, but even ere drawing nigh they could see that an entire army of delvers would be needed to remove the unnumbered tons of stone blocking the gate. Massive was the rock heap, great blocks torn from the shattered Mountain above, ramping up against the towering flank, burying the portal. Yet onward they marched, for Dokan would see for himself just what need be done ere sending word back into Kachar for more aid, more tools, more supplies.
Among Dragon-slain Harlingar they tramped, the Men burnt and rent and crushed. And the scavengers had been at them: empty eye sockets stared from gape-hole faces at the marching Châkka, partially stripped bones gleamed whitely in the dawnlight, and slack-jawed gaping grins japed obscenely from silent mouths ajar.
Past this slaughter marched the Dwarves, and though the sight sickened many, still this was the foe. Even so, there was no honor in the manner of their death; it was not as if these Men had met an enemy in honest battle; instead, they had been cruelly slain by a monster, and in this, the Châkka felt that the warrior codex had not been served. Enemy or not, a warrior deserves to fight the good fight, and if slain, then so be it. Or so say the Châkka.
Dokan led the delvers to the base of the great heap. It was even more massive than he had expected. Slowly the Châkka walked about the foot of the ramp, each assessing the enormous labor that it would take to clear away the blockage. At last the Minemaster called a runner unto him, and in short, terse sentences said what message he would have borne back to DelfLord Baran. And when the runner sped away, Dokan began giving orders to the remaining crew.
Sandy-haired Dorni, apprentice delver, sped toward the secret Châkka door, the Minemaster’s message committed to memory. Past the slain Harlingar he ran, and across the open slope, running alongside the stone bluff to his left. At last the young Dwarf arrived at the great boulder and slipped into the shallow crevice behind. Quickly his hands found the hidden lever. And just as the stone slab swung inward-
— RRRRAAAWWWW! A deafening roar shook the vale and massive leathery wings whelmed blasts of wind downward, and flame spewed upon the delvers at the face of the stone heap as Black Kalgalath thundered down through the dawn and fell upon the Châkka.
And young Dorni, his eardrums ruptured, his nostrils bleeding, turned and fled through the secret door and into Kachar, the Minemaster’s message to DelfLord Baran utterly forgotten.
Baran sat brooding upon his throne, Thork at his side. Before the dais stood Bolk, his eyes smoldering. “These sneering Riders are at it again, DelfLord: name-calling, accusing.”
Thork clenched a fist, hammering it into open palm. “Kruk!” The oath rang upon the stone of the chamber. “Did I not say that we had clutched a serpent to our bosom?”
“Think you that I know not the viperous nature of these braggarts?” gritted Baran. “Did I not lead the negotiating team into their deceitful midst? Am I not the lone survivor of their treachery?
“Even so, much as you or I or Captain Bolk or any mislike it, they are here under our protection: they asked for sanctuary, and by Elwydd, I gave it!”
“Sanctuary or no,” responded Bolk, “I cannot pledge that my warriors will not take matters into their own hands, for even sanctuary itself cannot revoke an insult to Châkka honor. Under our protection, aye, that they are, but that does not set them free from an honorable code of conduct.”
“Bolk-” seethed Baran, crashing the butt of a fist against the arm of the chair.