As Sien trod toward the portal, Bolk’s words echoed in her mind: “. . Châkka blood must remain pure. . remain pure. . pure. .”
The Châkian stepped through the opening to summon a page.
Fool Bolk! Little does he know about the purity of Châkka blood. . Little does he know.
And when Sien had sent the attendant running after a healer, she continued on toward her quarters, keeping the long-held secret of all the Châkia unto herself and her Kind.
In the chamber behind, as Bolk regained consciousness, his first sight was that of Thork upon one knee beside him. Groaning in fear, Bolk attempted to gain to his elbows and hitch hindwards, yet he had not the wherewithal and feebly fell back.
“Heed me, Bolk,” gritted Thork. “I am sending you away from Kachar-to Mineholt North or to the Red Hills, or even unto Kraggen-cor; I have not yet decided which. If I do not send you away, then it is plain that you and I will continue this madness until one or the other of us is slain. Yet ere it comes to that, ere it comes to murder and the consequences thereafter, I am sending you forth from this place to elsewhere, to a place where we can be rid of one another.” Thork’s face grew dark, his scars flaming, and he reached down and clenched a fistful of Bolk’s shirt in his grip, wrenching Bolk upward, dragging Bolk’s face close to his, the redheaded Châk’s eyes wide in fright. “Yet heed me again, Bolk!”-Thork’s words fell like strokes of a hammer upon an anvil-“If you ever utter another word against Princess Elyn, I will hunt you down and slaughter you like a pig and leave your corpse for the crows to eat, no matter the consequences.”
In that moment, a healer rushed in bearing his bag of herbs and simples, of salves and ointments and potions and powders, of gut and needles, of bandages and bindings, and Thork loosed his grip and stood and walked from the chamber, leaving Bolk on the floor behind.
Two days later, Bolk set forth from Kachar, heading for the Sky Mountains far to the west, and with him went nine others of like mind. And DelfLord Thork stood at the gate and watched them ride down through the valley and away, not sorry to see them go.
Though he was surrounded by Counsellors and petitioners and planners with issues to be settled and tasks to be done, Thork sank deeper into his melancholy, his days seeming long and lonely and pointless, his nights black and empty. And not a moment passed he did not think of Elyn-her copper hair, her green eyes, her grace beyond description. Yet at last he knew that this could not go on: he knew that he must come to terms with her death, else he could not give his best to the people of Kachar. And so, leaving word with the Council and taking a seven-day of supplies, Thork set off for the DelfLord’s Retreat, a small chamber high within the Mountain, climbing up along the way discovered ages past, the path steep, ramped in some places, stairs carven in others.
Up he climbed and up, stopping often to rest, yet at last he came unto the room where DelfLords before him had come-to rest, to meditate, to ponder. The chamber was ample, some five paces by seven, and furnished with a cot and privy pot and desk and chair. Upon the desk were candles and an oil lamp, and blank scrolls of foolscap. An inkwell and goose quills sat waiting, but the ink was long dried, though a waxsealed tin of lampblack stood ready for mixing should he feel the need to write.
Along one wall stood a copper-clad door, green with verdigris, a heavy crossbar fastening it shut. Thork moved to the portal and, with a grunt, hefted the bar up and away. Hinges protested as he swung the door inward and open, to reveal a twisting narrow crevice leading outward, and he could hear cascading water.
Stepping through the portal, Thork followed the smoothed floor of the winding split, curving this way and that, passing a small tumbling rill and continuing on; and after thirty paces or so, he came out into daylight on a broad ledge high upon the flank of the Mountain.
Down below he could see the whole of the vale leading up to the gates of Kachar. Too, he could see where Black Kalgalath had torn stone from the slopes to hurl it down below, the steeps scarred deeply and over a vast area, and he recalled Counsellor Dalk’s words: “It was as if Kalgalath knew that we were ready to begin our march upon Jord, and he came and buried the gates under a mass that made the other appear as an afternoon’s shovelling. It took us nearly three months to dig free, yet we succeeded at last, not more than a week before you returned, DelfLord Thork.”
North and east, Thork could see the snowcapped peaks of the Grimwall; south and east, the Realm of Kachar, and beyond, the Land of Aven, perhaps even unto Garia as well.
And the DelfLord stood high in the airy silence, surveying the world-Mountains and forests, valleys and streams, stone and snow and soil-and he would have gladly given it all for just one more glimpse of the precious face of his beloved Princess of Jord.
It was upon the third day of his solitary retreat that Thork again stood out upon the Mountain flank. It was late afternoon, and overhead a black storm roiled among the peaks; lightning streaked downward, thunder crashing after, and high dark clouds swirled above, though here and there wide rifts clove upward into the flashing, booming churn.
Wind battered at Thork, pummelling him, swirling his cloak about him, blowing his hair and beard, as if the coming storm were angered by his very presence.
And of a sudden he saw a red hawk sailing ’cross the seething sky, riding the winds of the storm and crying out its defiance:
Skree!
And Thork stood and watched.
Skree!
And a vision of Elyn-copper hair and green eyes-rose up in his mind. .
Beloved.
“Red hawk against dark sky, rise up on the thunder and wind and lightning, and ride the storm, as did my Elyn.”
And the hawk rose up ever higher, wheeling on the wind, riding up o’er the white Mountain crests and up among the chasms between the grey roiling clouds. And again Thork heard the far-off Skree! as if the raptor challenged the very elements themselves.
How like my Elyn.
Higher and higher the hawk wheeled, Thork straining to see-
Beloved.
— tears running down his face.
And it began to rain, water lashing down; but still he stood weeping and watched the hunter soar up into the distant thundering sky. Yet at last he could see the hawk no more, its red flight beyond his vision. And he cast his hood o’er his head and turned and went back inside.
“Tell me, my son, what is the greatest enchantment of all?”
“Why, love, Master, love; true love be the greatest enchantment of all.”
EPILOGUES
Thork reigned long and was well loved. Under his guidance Kachar prospered and Blackstone again became the Jewel among Châkkaholts. Too, it is said that in some fashion he aided Jord to recover, though just how is not recorded. When he died he was laid to rest in stone carven with a pair of red hawks in flight, male and female, an unusual device for a Dwarven tomb. He was forever remembered in the songs of bards as one of the two who together slew Black Kalgalath.
He never married.
For many long ages the Harlingar and the Châkka held each other in contempt; and even though they fought shoulder to shoulder in the War to overthrow the Usurper, and again as allies during the Winter War, still they continued to bristle at the sight of one another. It was not until the War of Kraggen-cor, more than twenty-six hundred years after the slaying of Sleeth and the taking of his hoard, that the rancor between Dwarves and Riders was at last erased, for no hatred, no vengeance, no neglect is passed on forever; it must come to rest somewhere, to vanish in the eternity of time or to die under the weight of love. Even so, Elgo’s name forever became a curse in the mouths of the Châkka, and forever a benediction upon the lips of the Vanadurin.