And the field exploded in battle.
Long did it last, and it was bloody, Men falling upon one side, Châkka upon the other. Yet at last the Men withdrew, Aranor leaving the field with less than seven hundred Harlingar, most of them wounded.
Aranor sat ahorse and looked down into the valley. And at his side was Ruric.
“A valley of death we gaze upon, Old Wolf,” said Aranor at last, breaking the long silence. “Our warriors, our youth, lie slain upon this bloody field. The future of our nation is bleak, and many years will pass ere we recover.”
“ ’Tis the curse o’ the Dracongield, my Lord. I be now the lone survivor o’ that ill-fated raid. Would that we ha’ ne’er heard o’ Sleeth and his terrible hoard o’ gold.”
Long moments more they sat, each deep within his own thoughts, but at last Aranor gave the signal.
Defeated, the Men of Jord turned for home.
And deep within the Châkkaholt, where the wailing voices of Châkia keened over the newly slain, Bolk, mighty in battle, slammed his axe to the council table. “Then it is settled: Come the spring, we shall take this War unto the gates of Jordkeep. We shall slay the Men and take back that which be rightfully ours: the treasure of Blackstone.”
For at that time they did not know, could not know, that the keep of Aranor lay in shambles, and that the hoard of Sleeth was gone.
CHAPTER 39
Winter, 3E1602-03
[The Present]
The echoes stopped ringing and the earth stopped trembling; the spires had fallen and smashed asunder; Andrak’s strongholt was no more. And in the lee of a mountain, two had witnessed the cataclysmic destruction, in awe, wondering at such a calamity. Yet one gathered his wits and thought of what might follow: “Princess, we must flee, and now, cross-country,” said Thork, stepping toward the debris scattered across the ’scape, a slight limp in his stride, “for mayhap some Men at Andrak’s holt set out searching for us ere the fortress fell, and they are not bound by the Sun.”
“What would they want with us now, Thork?” asked Elyn.-Rach! She rubbed a tender elbow. Must have taken hurts in the crash. We’ll be sore in the morning. Massaging her arm as she went toward her pack, again she asked: “What would they want? Vengeance? Robbery? Duty? It hardly seems likely that such would carry out an order given by a dead Rutch, or Drōkh, or Guul, or even a dead Human commander, for surely all must have perished in the collapse.” Elyn took loose her bow from the pack, checking it for damage. Nought but a scratch that can be taken out with fat or oil, or by rubbing the sweetmeat of a nut in the mark. One of her arrows was snapped in twain, but the rest had survived.
“I know not why they would pursue,” Thork answered, “but if they do, then best we be gone when they arrive.” Thork, too, checked his weapons for breakage, especially the mechanisms of the crossbow: all was well.
Elyn shouldered her backpack, taking her bow in hand, quiver at her hip. “Thork, my saber lies a short way back down the road, run through a Guul, and I would have it.”
Thork nodded, slipping the glamoured hammer, the Kammerling, into the warhammer loop at his belt. Shouldering his pack, shield attached, he took up his axe and then faced southerly. “Then let us be gone, for the day is growing, and I would be away from here.”
They found Elyn’s blade some four hundred paces back the way they had come, alongside the steep bluff, the sword piercing a foul grey shirt amid a pile of filthy clothing; of the Guul, there remained only ashes scattering in the wind. Elyn took up the saber-My sire’s eyes gleamed and he smiled so, and could barely wait for me to unwrap it from the soft cloth. It was my eighteenth summer-and washed the blade clean with snow, then dried it on her own cloak and sheathed it. “Now, we can leave the road if that be the best strategy, though I think that will put us in the open valley, whereas this route conceals us along the slopes of these cold grey mountains.”
“Aye, that it does,” agreed Thork, “but the road is more likely to be ridden by any who escaped the fall.”
“If we cut cross-country, where are we bound? What line do we take?” To Elyn, all the mountains, though different in detail, were much the same in aggregate. Only Black Mountain to the south did she definitely recognize, and that was only because it was a great ebon beacon among the grey.
Thork turned, sighting through the peaks and crags. “Yon be the four fingers and the thumb that guided us into this range”-Thork pointed out the five crests-“and there lies the pass between. And there”-his hand and arm traced a route for Elyn’s eyes to follow-“save this road, be the easiest route past where Andrak’s holt once stood, though to cross the vale I deem that the most concealed way”-again his free hand traced a route-“lies yon.” And all the while, Elyn’s gaze followed where his hand pointed, agreeing with his assessment, and she marvelled at his quick eye for the lay of the land, his sense of slopes and flats and routes across them, and she was yet amazed by his uncanny Dwarven sense of direction, of location.
“Then let us be gone,” she said when he fell quiet. “You choose, for you are the one to guide-” Suddenly Elyn held up a hand for silence. “Hist! Riders come.” And the sound of hooves knelled, but whether far or near, they could not say, for the road curved out of sight, following the base of the bluff, the stone blocking sight and baffling sound. Quickly shedding her pack, Elyn dropped to the ground, placing her ear to the earth. “Five or six,” she said after a moment, “at a middling gait. A trot. Near. And something else do I hear: a tapping, as of signals.”
While Elyn listened to the vibrations within the ground, Thork looked about, searching for a place of concealment, and barring that, a narrow lieu that they could defend: nothing.
Even as she stood, rounding the bend some fifty yards hence came five riders-Men-and Elyn set arrow to string as Thork slipped from his backpack and hefted his axe.
The swart Men slowed their mounts to a walk, yet steadily came onward, all drawing tulwars but holding them horizontal across their saddles.
“Dök!” cried Thork, falling into his native tongue. “Halt!” he repeated, this time in Common.
The leader of the Men threw up his hand and called out-“Ghoda rhokho!”-in a language that neither Elyn nor Thork understood; it did not sound like the Slûk tongue, but instead something else. And the five reined to a halt. The leader said something low to his Men, then slowly stepped his horse forward while the others waited. Closer he came, until he was but paces away, his sword still gripped athwart withers. Thork raised his hand and again called “Halt!”-the rider stopping. The Man’s skin was brown with a yellowish cast, and his eyes had a cant to them. He wore a black moustache, long and lank, and a thin goatee hung down. His helm was steel, with fur trim and a point jutting upward. His armor was iron rings sewn on leather. And the Man’s tilted eyes looked first at Elyn’s red hair and her white features, then shifted to Thork, taking in his stature and forked beard.
“Kaija, Wolc,” said the rider in some form of greeting, his voice gutteral.
“Speak Common, Man,” growled Thork. “Else begone.”
The rider shook his head and pointed to his ear and mouth, displaying his tongue, then turned and called to one of his Men, motioning him forward.