“Master Kalor,” asked Thork, “about this Kammerling: why is it also called the Rage Hammer?”
Kalor stroked his silver beard. “That be another legend, Prince Thork: it is said that only a rage beyond bearing will bring the Kammerling to its full potency. . that is why it is named the Rage Hammer.
“There is this, too, about Adon’s Hammer: lore would have it that there be a ‘doom’ on the wielder of the hammer, a prophecy: No matter whether for good or for ill, tragedy will surely come to him who wields the Kammerling.
“And it is also told that the Rage Hammer will be wielded by one who has lost a loved one.”
“That could be any one of us here,” mused Thork, “yet I deem that the death of my sire seems to fit this prophecy. Master Kalor, could it be Brak’s death spoken of in the words of lore?”
“Aye, that would fit,” answered the eld Châk, “though others would fit as well.”
“Be there aught else of these legends?” asked Baran.
“Only this, DelfLord,” responded Kalor. “It be told that Black Kalgalath cannot be slain by the hand of Man.”
Thork held up his own gnarled fingers, looking at them in the blue-green lantern light. “This be not the hand of a Man.”
Bolk’s deep voice sounded across the table. “I say that we get this Rage Hammer and use it not only upon Black Kalgalath, but also to whelm these Riders.”
Bolk’s proposition met with scattered shouts of agreement.
“Mayhap, Bolk,” responded Baran, “for it would be a mighty token of power to bear into any battle. But ere we can swing it in battle against the Riders, first we must obtain the thing. Master Kalor, where be this Hammer of Adon?”
“That I know not, DelfLord,” responded Kalor, “for there be many rumors as to its whereabouts. Yet among the Loremasters it be said that the Kammerling lies in the Land of Xian, where the Wizards dwell. I would look for it in Black Mountain, for that be the holt of the Mages. Yet, where be Black Mountain, I cannot say, other than far to the east in distant Xian.”
His knowledge spent, Loremaster Kalor resumed his seat. Long moments passed ere anyone said aught, but at last Baran spoke: “Let us now consider how we might obtain this weapon, for as has been pointed out, not only will it rid us of Black Kalgalath, it also can be used in the War with the Riders.”
“My Lord Baran”-Thork’s voice was quiet, yet all heard him-“I think that just one Châk must go on this perilous mission, and these be my reasons: First, we are not certain that the Kammerling even exists, and so to send a large or even a small band on this quest will deplete our much-needed forces here. Second, Black Kalgalath may indeed have the power to sense those nigh in his presence, hence may be able to detect a party of Châkka and destroy them; yet a lone Châk might be able to slip through, if for no other reason than Kalgalath may not deign to stoop to slay a single Châk. Third, whoever we send must be a warrior who wields a hammer with skill, for we know not what Adon’s Hammer be like, and the warrior’s skill might be needed to heft, to bear, and, aye, even to use the Kammerling. Fourth, this warrior must be able to fend for himself in the wilds as well as within civilization.
“Baran DelfLord, I propose that I be that warrior who goes on the Quest of Black Mountain.”
Amid a murmur of approval, Thork sat down.
Long into the night went the debate upon the best way to obtain the Kammerling, but in the end it was Thork’s plan that was accepted, for all knew that the Prince was a champion without peer, and none were mightier with a hammer than he. Too, he had all the skills needed to survive such a quest, and even DelfLord Baran, who was loath for Thork to go, admitted that he was best suited for this mission.
And so it was that Thork, Son of Brak, Prince of Kachar, was chosen to set forth alone upon a quest to find Black Mountain to obtain the Kammerling.
Yet, while this Council of Chief Captains was taking place, down within the bowels of Kachar another council was held: the two surviving Reachmarshals of Jord, Gannor and Vaeran, and Marshal Boer, along with Armsmaster Ruric and Captain Reynor, convened with the King to speak upon the straits they had come to; and their words were spoken in Valur, the ancient War-tongue of the Harlingar, so that if any words were overheard by hostile ears, they would not be understood.
“Aye, my Lord, that’s the gist of it,” reported Vaeran. “The horse skitted, the Dwarf cried out, there came a cat-call from a Harlingar, it led to words about cowardice and thievery, and next there was the duel.”
“And five Vanadurin lay dead when it was done.” Aranor’s voice was filled with suppressed ire.
“It be these whey-faced, gold-grubbing cowards who are at fault, Lord,” spat Reynor. “They slammed the gate upon our warriors and because of that-”
“By damn, Captain,” erupted Aranor, “the moment Kalgalath struck the ground it was too late for them! Even I realize that now. Had the roles been reversed, we would have done the same.”
Seething, Reynor clamped his lips together, yet it was plain to all that the Captain did not yet accept the reality of Aranor’s words.
“My Lord,” spoke up Marshal Boer, “duels with these Dwarves be not at issue here. The fact is that our latest tally shows that less than eleven hundred Harlingar remain, and only nine hundred horses are stabled within, and we are trapped in a black hole with our enemies teeming all about us.” Boer’s eyes took on a steely glint in the blue-green lantern light. “That be our true concern, King Aranor: not duels with these gold-grasping rock dwellers, but the fact that we are trapped and surrounded and outnumbered.”
“Aye, Marshall Boer,” replied Aranor. “Yet think you not that these gluttons cannot count as well as we. They would welcome a fight, for now they have the upper hand: they outnumber us; we are upon their home ground and know not the byways through this labyrinth of theirs, nor the path to freedom; we know not where the food is stored, nor grain for the steeds, nor where a supply of drinkable water lies. And do not forget-even should we win to freedom, there be a Dragon awaiting us out there.”
“Think you that they would use these duels to begin combat within their own holt, Lord?” Boer’s question fell into the still air.
“Aye, Boer, they might,” replied Aranor.
“Then, my King,” asked Gannor, “what would you have us do? They call us thieves and looters. They say that we are without honor. Would you have us accept these gibes? Would you have us take on the mantle of that which they name us? Would you have us be without honor?”
Aranor’s face flushed scarlet. “By damn, Gannor-”
“My Lord,” interrupted Armsmaster Ruric, “the quarrel be not here among us. Instead, it lies ’tween Vanadurin and Dwarves.”
Slowly Aranor’s face lost its anger. “You are right, Armsmaster. You are right. It be this unacceptable plight we are in that sets us all on edge. Let us not quarrel ’mongst ourselves. Instead, I would have us entertain strategies that will negate the advantage that the Dwarves have upon us.
“And, Hrosmarshal Gannor, Captain Reynor, let us also reason how we might negate the strategy of the foe, assuming that he wishes to catch us in a War within this maze of his where he has the whip hand. Clearly, forbearance is called for. We must cool down the hot blood of our warriors. Even so, I would not have us take on the mantle cast by the foe. Hence, at the same time, we must decide how to deal with that issue, with insults and gibes, with taunts and challenges, for we must draw the line somewhere.”
And so the Vanadurin huddled ’round the table and spoke long into the night, seeking strategems that would nullify the foe’s clear edge.
Thork set forth the following morn, after Black Kalgalath’s dawntime beleaguerment. With pony and supplies and travelling weaponry, Thork fared down the long rock-walled tunnel to the distant eastern exit, secret to all but the Châkka of Kachar. Baran went to the hidden portal with his brother, but what they said to one another is not recorded. All that is known is that Thork stepped out into the eastern light and mounted up onto his steed and set forth, riding downslope through the ashes of the Silverwood. And when he came to the bottom of the slope and reined Digger to a halt and looked back, Baran was gone into the Mountain once more. And so Thork clicked his tongue and urged the pony forward, travelling toward the morning Sun, riding in the wake of a distant east-bound Dragon.