Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Scholars do not know just how long it took for the movement to become the creed of Elves—one millennium, two millennia, ten or more—but eventually Elvenkind turned sane, and the Time of Madness ended.

  Elves then became warders of life and the living, protectors of the wild, and keepers of the forests and fields. And they sought after knowledge through art and crafting and long study of nature and its gifts, and they grew with the learning. Finally Adon permitted Elves to come unto Mithgar, for as long as they were mad, they would have done dreadful things to this wild and savage world, but in their sanity, they would cherish it instead.

  Elvenkind yet engages in wars, but only if freedom and free will and self-determination are threatened. Hence, they consider Gyphon the greatest evil, and they fought bravely upon the side of the allies against Modru in the Great War. And ofttimes they take up arms when small pockets of the living are endangered with slavery or extinction.

  As to the recent events concerning the High King, all the past Corons and Keepers and representatives of the Guardians had gathered in Darda Galion to determine what to do.

  Vanidar Silverleaf, a Guardian, was one of the past Corons, and he had heeded the call.

  Riatha refreshed Vanidar’s goblet with pale white wine. “Well, Silverleaf, what then was decided?”

  Vanidar took a sip, and then said, “Each may follow his or her own conscience, to wage war on the side of Reyer, if he lives, or with a rightful successor if not, or to stand aloof from this matter of Human succession to the crown.”

  “I see,” said Riatha. “Fight or no, no matter the which of it, in the course of seasons it will eventually pass.”

  Silverleaf nodded, yet added, “But there is this: Arkov has emissaries from Chabba and Sarain and Hurn in his court, and there are Chabbains now on the soil of Pellar, there nigh the site where Gleeds once stood.”

  “Worshippers of Gyphon, all,” said Riatha.

  “Aye. And though in the whole of things those in the High King’s lands are not many, still . . .”

  They sat for long moments in silence, and only the gurgle of the Virfla and the songs of birds broke the stillness of the surround.

  Finally, Riatha said, “For me, unless the followers of Gyphon become a factor, I believe ’tis a matter for the Humans to settle among themselves. What dost thou intend, my friend?”

  Silverleaf’s infectious grin brightened his face. “Me? I think I will unlimber my bow and wait for the announcement that Reyer is alive.”

  Ruefully, yet smiling, Riatha shook her head. “Thou and Aravan: ever the ones for adventure, neh?”

  Silverleaf laughed, then looked about. “Speaking of Aravan, where has that rascal gotten to?”

  Riatha sighed. “He has news of a yellow-eyed man in Thyra.”

  Silverleaf’s face now fell glum. “I see. He is ever after Galarun’s killer.”

  Riatha nodded and added, “And the Silver Sword.”

  17

  Kraggen-cor

  Known as Drimmen-deeve by the Elves and as the Black Hole by Men, under the four mountains known as the Quadran the mighty Dwarvenholt of Kraggen-cor is delved. There, among other ores, precious starsilver is mined, called silveron by Men. Higher prized than jewels, no metal is more dear on Mithgar, and many seek the wealth of it, and in very few places on this world is it found.

  Yet starsilver and the things that can be made of it are not the only goods produced in this holt, for the Dwarves—the Châkka—are quite clever with their crafts, and the variety of items fashioned therein abound.

  As to Kraggen-cor itself, its full extent none know, not even those who live there, for the Quadran is riddled with natural caverns carved by water throughout countless years. Why, Durek himself was lost within the vastness of these endless corridors, until, that is, he was rescued by one of the Utruni—giants who can part stone with their fingers, and seal it behind seamlessly.

  After his rescue, Durek led his line of Châkka from the Isles of Gelen to this newly discovered place, and they set about smoothing the tunnels into hallways and shaping chambers to live within. In general they enhanced the stone, even though they cut and hammered and drilled and carved and clove to do so.

  It became the greatest Châkkaholt on Mithgar, and a place of wide renown.

  To all outsiders there are two established ways into Kraggen-cor—the Dawn Gate, named the Daûn Gate by the Châkka, and the Dusk Door, called the Dusken Door by the Dwarves—and these two entrances lie on opposite sides of the Grimwall, for that’s where the Quadran sits, with the nation of Rell to the west, and the wold above Darda Galion to the east. These two entrances are some forty-six miles apart by the most direct route within, and perhaps forty miles apart as a crow might fly, were it able. And the way between the Door and the Gate has been a trade road for millennia, and the Dwarves charge high tolls for its use. Yet it provides a way through the mountains when winter grips the land, and the passes are blocked by snow.

  But other than these two known entrances, ’tis rumored there are many secret ways into Kraggen-cor, Dwarven delved and hidden. True or not, only one secret way—the High Gate—will become known to outsiders millennia or so from now, for it will be mentioned in subsequent histories, after the War of Kraggen-cor. But that time was yet to come, and this time was now.

  And some four years after the overthrow of High King Valen, at each of the entrances into Kraggen-cor, visiting Châkka arrived, to be led through the corridors to the chambers within. . . .

  . . . And when all had come and were well quartered and rested and fed, in one of those chambers . . .

  • • •

  THE DELFLORDS HAD GATHERED.

  They stood about a large stone table as if waiting.

  Just then leaving were lithe creatures dressed head to foot in swirling veils, their countenances and forms unseen. These were Châkia—trothmates, mothers, healers, precious females—who had sung welcoming greetings to the Châkka lords and had asked Adon’s daughter Elwydd for Her blessings and Her wise guidance to be present during these proceedings.

  The Châkka did not watch the Châkia depart, for to do so would be rude beyond measure.

  Instead, the DelfLords waited in silence.

  They were a varied lot, these eight, though they did have much in common: all stood somewhere between four foot four and four foot eight; all wore beards braided in twain; all were sturdily built and broad shouldered, a span nearly half again as wide as those of Men; and all were armed and armored, for this was a council of war.

  Yet they spoke not or looked at one another and stood with eyes downcast.

  And some moments later, a distant chime rang.

  DelfLord Bekk of Kraggen-cor cleared his throat and raised his gaze from the table and glanced ’round at the gathering.

  The other DelfLords also looked up, and at a word from Bekk, they placed maces and axes and morning stars before them and took their seats. Yet Bekk, as host, remained standing, his own double-bitted axe in hand.

  In a voice sounding much like gravel sliding from a hod, Bekk said, “Normally, we do not interfere in the squabbles of Men unless it somehow threatens us. Yet this time might be different, hence we are gathered to decide whether to go to war against Arkov when the time comes.”

  Bekk then laid his axe to the table and released his grip and took a seat.

  The DelfLord of Skyloft reached forth a hand and gripped the helve of his mace.

  Bekk nodded and said, “Borri.”

  The ginger-haired and youthful Borri said, “Say what this Elf told you.”

  Bekk said, “Silverleaf is his name—Vanidar in the Elven tongue—and long has he been Châk-Sol . . . from well before the times of any of us, perhaps even back unto the days of Durek himself.”

  A murmur rustled ’round the table at Bekk’s words, for rarely did an outsider become Châ
k-Sol—Dwarf Friend. And yet, given that Silverleaf had been Châk-Sol since the time of Durek, he had been a Dwarf Friend for thousands of years.

  Bekk let the whispers settle and then continued. “Silverleaf says that there is a rightful heir to Valen’s throne, and in the days to come, he will make himself known.”

  Many reached for the helves of their weapons but white-haired Velk, DelfLord of Blueholt, was the first to speak. “Just as we would not welcome Men interfering in Châkka affairs, I ask: why should this concern us?”

  “Because it involves the High King, to whom we swear fealty, and Arkov is a usurper,” gritted Kerek, DelfLord of Kachar, the redheaded grandson of Baran, brother of Thork Dragonslayer. “And this usurper, this Arkov, is of the line of Borik the Oathbreaker, and has no honor whatsoever, and I will not swear allegiance to him.”

  “Even so,” replied Velk, “even though we do not swear fealty, this is a matter for Humans, I would think.”

  All eyes turned to Bekk, but it was Regga of Redholt who said, “Arkov has let the Chabbains take land in Pellar.”

  Oaths and shouts and questions erupted: Kruk! What? Chabbains on the High King’s soil?

  Bekk let the uproar subside and then nodded to Regga to continue. And with his dark eyes glittering in fury, Regga said, “Arkov let these worshippers of Gyphon have the site where the battle of Gleeds took place. They are driving crofters out. Many of the dispossessed have passed by the Red Hills on their way to refuge elsewhere.”

  “Do not the Pellarians rise up?” asked fair-haired Degan of Blackstone.

  “Nay,” said Regga, shaking his head. “They are scattered and unorganized, and should they gather they would be crushed by Arkov’s armies, which are swollen in ranks by mercenaries from Alban and Hurn and Sarain.”

  “Kruk!” cursed Vrenn, DelfLord of the Quartzen Caves. He made a fist in his mailed glove and stared at it. “Mercenaries from Sarain? Fists of Rakka?”

  “Aye,” said Regga.

  “Rakka is but another name for Gyphon,” said Vrenn. “And these Fists: I thought we destroyed them all in the War of the Ban.”

  Bekk shook his head. “They are like a foul weed, a thistle of thorns, and the moment you think them gone, they spring up elsewhere. This time in Arkov’s ranks.”

  “Next we know, Arkov will enlist Modru to his side,” said young Borri.

  They sat in silence for long moments, and finally white-haired Velk said, “What of this rightful heir? Who is it and when will he come?”

  “Silverleaf did not say,” replied Bekk. “This I believe, however: the heir is not yet of an age to rally Men to his side.”

  “I do know the Northern Alliance stands ready,” said Degan, whose Châkkaholt—Blackstone—lay in the Rigga Mountains along the borders of Rian not far from Mont Challerain.

  “Have they assembled an army?” asked Belek, DelfLord of Mineholt North in the Rimmen Mountains of Riamon.

  “Nay,” replied Degan, “yet my emissary at Challerain Keep tells me that all nations north and west of the Grimwalls have pledged to support this unknown heir.”

  “Pah! Unlike we Châkka, pledges are easily made by Men and just as easily broken,” said Regga.

  But Degan turned to Velk. “What says your emissary in the royal halls of Gelen?”

  Velk shrugged and said, “The king of the Isles of Gelen, too, has pledged support to the Alliance at Challerain. Yet, it is as Regga says, Men easily break the pledges they make.”

  “What of the Elves?” asked Vrenn, turning to Bekk. “Where do they stand in this?”

  The DelfLord of Kraggen-cor sighed and said, “The Council of Corons has decided to remain neutral. They do, however, give permission for any Elf desiring to do so to stand with the Northern Alliance against Usurper Arkov.”

  “Elves, pah!” spat Regga. “Pussyfoots all.”

  “Nay,” said Bekk. “None would I call pussyfoots. Yet in this matter, Silverleaf said that in the long march of time successions mean little to Elvenkind. Hence, for the most part they take but vague interest in who rules among Men and who does not.”

  Young Borri said, “Even though worshippers of Gyphon despoil the soil of the High King’s realm? Still the Elves will not engage?”

  “Some will,” said Bekk. “Others, not. The Council of Corons has chosen to let each Elf decide for himself.”

  “Faugh!” said Regga, disgust in his voice. “And they name themselves Guardians.”

  • • •

  OVER THE NEXT THREE days the Council of DelfLords met, and Old Velk did point out that the Châkkaholts were far-flung from one another, and should they decide to march to war, it would take considerable time to assemble. But Regga said, once this rightful heir had revealed himself, should war be in the offing, they could come together as swiftly as the nations of the Northern Alliance.

  But the issue at hand was not how quickly they could gather, but rather whether to gather at all. Unlike Humans, Châkka did not reproduce swiftly, and they had not yet fully recovered from their losses in the Great War of the Ban, even though that had occurred nearly two millennia agone. Nevertheless, they had ever marched to war on the side of right, and this would be no different, or so Regga claimed.

  In the end they decided that if the worshippers of Gyphon became a greater threat, then they would throw in their lot with the Northern Alliance. But if Gyphon’s followers did not become a significant factor, then each Châk could decide for himself. It was a position that Regga and Belek and Vrenn and Kerek disagreed with, saying that it was no better than what the pussyfooting Elves had settled on. Yet in the end they yielded to the other four, for, as Bekk said, much could change between now and the time the rightful heir revealed himself.

  On the following day, after being sung farewell at meeting’s close by the veiled Châkia, the DelfLords departed for their separate holts.

  All gathered at the Daûn Gate, through which Vrenn, Belek, Regga, and Kerek went:

  Vrenn to the gold-rich Quartzen Caves in Riamon.

  Belek to Mineholt North and its ores of copper, in Riamon as well.

  Regga to the armories of iron-laden Redholt in the Red Hills lying along the border of Jugo to the south and the abandoned land of Ellor—sometimes called Valon—to the north.

  And Kerek to Kachar in the Grimwalls between Aven to the south and Jord to the north, there where a mother lode of zinc lay.

  After those four and their entourages had ridden eastward down the slope of Baralan, Bekk and the others headed for the Dusken Door, a two-day journey westward along the trade road linking the two entrances.

  When they arrived, and after spending the night, out through the Dusken Door went Young Borri, Old Velk, and Degan, and their bands:

  Young Borri to the silver mines of Skyloft, lying in the Sky Mountains between Basq and Gothon.

  Old Velk to Blueholt in the Blue Hills of the North Isle of Gelen, where tin lay rich.

  And Degan to jewel-laden Blackstone, the holt recovered at last from Sleeth the Orm by Foul Elgo, stealer of treasure, and his warband of thieves. With his thievery and his insults it was Elgo who started the war between the Châkka of Kachar and the Vanadurin of Jord, a war that ended in disaster for both.

  As these three DelfLords and their accompanying warbands fared down Ragad Vale, setting out on the long treks to their separate holts, Bekk and his own entourage turned eastward to follow the hallways back.

  • • •

  THEY SPENT THE NIGHT in a small chamber some twenty-one miles along the northeastward corridors from the Dusken Door, but none rested well. Even the ponies seemed unsettled.

  “I am uneasy in this part of my realm,” said the DelfLord to his armsmaster, Dekon.

  Dekon nodded and said, “They say that ever since the Great War of the Ban, something of dread haunts these halls nigh. Yet none can say what i
t might be.”

  “It is as if some horror died nearby and its ghost yet lingers,” said Ferek, the keeper of ponies.

  “Mayhap it is something that dwells deep under, something disturbed by our delvings,” said Ranak, one of the warriors in accompaniment.

  “Pah!” snorted Bekk. “Legends and fables. I deem it but a damp drift of air or an odd smell, or even a slight venting of a strange gas that causes such disquiet. Let us press on.”

  And they took the rightmost fork of the four corridors before them and left the small chamber behind, all in the band dismissive of the subtle warning of a dire terror that would one day be loosed in these very halls.

  18

  Emissary

  The realm of Chabba lies along the southeastern shores of the Avagon Sea. Dwellers in that land are dusky-skinned, though not as dark as those who live on the plains and in the jungles far south of the Karoo. The Chabbains are a nation of traders, with their long trains of camels plying ancient roads leading south and west and east, faring as far toward the sunset as the land of Hyree, as far below the midline as the jungle land of Tchanga, and as far toward the sunrise as Jinga on the waters of the Yellow Sea. This latter trade route is the longest of all and quite valuable and coveted. It is made even longer by the mighty Jangdi Mountains, which stand in the way of a direct easterly road to Jinga; and so the Chabbains first fare northward, through Sarain and Hurn and Alban and Aralan to come to the Grey Mountains, where they then turn eastward and go far overland to reach the silks and porcelains and jades of that distant realm. Yet the Northern nations also trade with Jinga, mostly by sea, but at times by overland treks. And much of the route the Chabbains follow flows through the High King’s domain. And when Rolun became High King, Chabba and Pellar did dispute ownership of this trade route with one another, and the Askars of Chabba crossed the Avagon Sea in ships and burnt the young city of Gleeds to the ground, and many an innocent died: women, children, babes, oldsters. Yet High King Rolun’s army did entrap the invaders and, but for a niggling few, slew them one and all, even though many had surrendered. Not only because of that act of retribution, but also because of other deeds in other wars, ever did and do the Chabbains clutch hatred unto their breasts and swear to avenge those who are so slaughtered, be it soon or late. To not take such oaths is unthinkable, for they venerate the ghosts of their kindred and carry hatreds on, believing that all dark deeds need redress, whether done of recent or of long past. Were the living to forget their duty, the ghosts of those so slain would find no rest, no solace, and their wailing would inflict misery upon any kindred yet alive.