Aylis shook her head. “Nay, yet there are Mages among those at the fortress who might be powerful enough—though that is not at all a certainty—to banish a Gargon back to the Demon world. If that proves not to be feasible, the Healers among the allies can cast calmness upon our forces, enough so that the Elves at the ballistas could launch spears at the Fearcaster, just like the ballista-flung lance slew the Gargon at Dendor during the War of the Ban.”
“Even so,” said the Dara, “with many Draedani among the foe would they not pose a dreadful risk?”
“They would,” replied Aylis. “Yet my father says that it would require a very powerful Black Mage to summon each one from Grygar, and for a number of Dread Ones to be called, it would take many powerful dark Wizards. Modru, Durlok, mayhap Ordrune: they were powerful enough to do so. But they were in a class of their own; yet all three are now dead. Mayhap there is not a living Black Mage powerful enough to draw forth a Gargon from the Demon Plane, much less enough to summon several.”
A look of relief swept over the faces of many in the assembly, for they well knew the terror such monsters could bring.
A ginger-haired Alor asked, “Aravan, what are the plans for rotation of Lian and Dylvana in and out of the Black Fortress company? It cannot be pleasant living upon Neddra.”
“For the nonce, Theril, by choice that duty falls to our kindred on the High World; they cite the fact that it has been long since they were in battle against the Rûpt, whereas the Dylvana and Lian on Mithgar have since engaged in two great wars—the Winter War against Modru, and the War of the Dragonstone against the Fists of Rakka and the Golden Horde of the so-called Dragonking—while they sat idle on Adonar . . . through no fault of their own, I add, for in those times the Planes were yet sundered one from the other.”
At Aravan’s side, Tuon said, “Would that we of the Darda Galion ward had been in those battles, those of us who were here at the time. Yet we could not leave the Larkenwald undefended.” Tuon smiled and shook his head and added, “Though with the small company I had after Inarion and the others went unto the High Plane, we would have been hard-pressed to defend this realm against a force of any size.”
“Thou wert here in the Eldwood when Bair and I crossed to the Larkenwald from Adonar?” asked Aravan.
Tuon nodded. “Aye, though on patrol when the Dawn Rider and thee and the silverlarks came, though afterward Silverleaf told us of the event that he and the Dylvana had seen here in Wood’s-heart.”
When the questions had run their course, with Aravan and Aylis responding, Tuon called for a halt, for the mark of noon had come. Then Aylis and Aravan joined Tuon for a midday meal. As they retired to a bench under the spread of one of the giants, “Your weapon, Tuon,” said Aylis, gesturing at the dark spear Tuon set aside, “its aura bears strange
“ ’Tis named Black Galgor,” Tuon replied. “Some say it has a destiny to fulfill, though none knows what it might be.”
“What of the Well of Uâjii?” asked Aravan.
Tuon shrugged. “Mayhap that was Black Galgor’s destiny, though Silverleaf claims it was his arrows brought down the wyrm, while Halíd claims it was his great shamsheer did the creature in.”
“You must tell me this tale,” said Aylis, curiosity filling her gaze.
“Aye, that I will,” said Tuon. But then he shook his head, saying, “ ’Twill pale by comparison to the story of the Dawn Sword. Hai, would that I had seen that blade.” He glanced at Black Galgor and then at Aylis. “I ween its aura was filled to bursting with what you name
“Nay, not that sword,” said Aylis. “Though it was a token of power, it had no
“But it slew Gyphon,” protested Tuon.
“Aye, it did,” agreed Aravan. “But Bair, too, saw no aura on it.”
“Nor did my father, Alamar,” said Aylis. “Nor did Dalor and Branwen, who were there as well. Father thinks mayhap that was its power, for all other things I have ever seen have had at least a flicker of aethyr, yet the sword had none. And mayhap by having no aura whatsoever, that’s why it could not be diverted by Gyphon, and why it could penetrate his
“Where now is that fabled blade?” asked Tuon.
Aravan shrugged. “ ’Tis gone forever, down into the Abyss along with Gyphon and Ydral and the Crystal Cavern and most of the Great Swirl and a monstrous gulp of the Sindhu Sea.”
Two days after, Aylis and Aravan rode out from Wood’s-heart and headed northward. They were bound for Drimmen-deeve, or as the Drimma called it, Kraggen-cor. They crossed the Cellener and late that eve came to the Quadrill, where they turned their mounts to follow along that watercourse. Two more days passed ere they emerged from the forest and came into sight of the Grimwall Mountains lying some four leagues to the west, the dark peaks heretofore shielded from view by the massive boles of the trees. The range ran beyond seeing to north and south; grim in its fastness it was, and said to be filled with the dens of Foul Folk. Yet those fetid holes lay not nigh the Eldwood, nor in the sweep of Drimmen-deeve, for neither Elves nor Dwarves abided Spawn to live in their immediate grasp. Southward the mountains ran toward the Great Escarpment, forking in twain: the main spine to turn westerly and head for far-off Gothon and Tugal and Basq to finally end in Vancha, the other to dwindle into the Gûnarring, to arc about the land of Gûnar and eventually rise once more to rejoin the main run of the range. Northward the peaks ran toward Gron and Jord, to turn easterly and flow all the way to Jinga and nearly reach the Shining Sea. But in the distance, mayhap three or so days away at the pace they were riding, they could see four peaks towering above the rest—’twas the Quadran, consisting of Greytower, Grimspire, Loftcrag, and Stormhelm, this last towering above all.
Below these four mighty mountains lay their goal—the Dwarvenholt of Drimmen-deeve—and Aravan and Aylis heeled their horses and rode onward, leaving Darda Galion behind.
14
Kraggen-cor
JOURNEY TO THE EROEAN
LATE SPRING 6E1
“I can see why Greytower is so called,” said Aylis, pointing at the ashen rock of that peak, “and the blackness of Grimspire would seem to give that mountain its name. But given the tint of the stone, I would think Loftcrag would be called Bluecrag or Skycrag, while ruddy Stormhelm ought to be called Bloodhelm or some such.”
“ ’Twas Humankind that gave them those names, hence I cannot say why they are called as they are. Elves, on the other hand, name them respectively, Garlon, Aevor, Chagor, and Coron.”
“Coron, as in the High King of Elves?”
“Aye, for it is the mightiest mountain in the Grimwall.”
Aylis laughed. “You think much of Elvenkind to name it so.”
“Ah, Chier, I did not say it was the mightiest mountain in all of Mithgar, for I have seen giants of mountains in the Jangdi Range.”
Again Aylis laughed and added, “I take it that Elvenkind is not the mightiest in all of Mithgar, then.”
“Oh, my love, surely I would not say that,” replied Aravan, and his laugh joined hers.
Again Aylis looked at the four peaks. “What do the Dwarves call them?”
“Uchan, Aggarath, Ghatan, and Ravenor.”
“And Drimmen-deeve lies under those four?”
“Aye,” replied Aravan. “And it is a mountainfast no foe could penetrate until the Gargon was set free from the Lost Prison. Then it lay open to enemies, though only the Rûpt took advantage, for they were sent to occupy the Deeves by Modru. ’Twas he who summoned the Draedan to deal with the Drimma.”
“Ah, again Gargons,” said Aylis.
“Shall I tell thee the tale? How the Drimma, when mining starsilver, weakened the wall of the Gargon’s Lair? I know but part of it, not all.”
“Nay, love, let me
“Ah, for the nonce I had forgotten thy calling,” said Aravan with a smile.
Aylis’s
gaze swept over the four peaks of the Quadran. “A formidable fastness, you say?”
Aravan nodded. “Nigh impenetrable.”
“Well, then, I do hope they let us in.”
“Fear not, Chier,” said Aravan, “for I am Châk-Sol—Dwarf-Friend—so named long past by Tolak. After several perilous encounters during the many journeys to obtain that which was needed for the construction of the Eroean, it was by his decree that I became Châk-Sol. He also vouched for me when I went to the third Khana Durek in Drimmen-deeve for a pound of starsilver needed to paint the hull of the Eroean to keep barnacles and other such away from her bottom. And I intend to ask DelfLord Balor for another pound when we reach Drimmen-deeve.”
“ ’Twas a priceless gift they gave you,” said Aylis.
Aravan shrugged and said, “Paid back more than tenfold by the experience and knowledge the Drimma gathered in return, to say nought of a share of the goods received at the end of each voyage. Well-earned, I add, by each and every Drimmen warband that has served on my ship.”
“And now we go to recruit a new one, eh?”
“We do,” replied Aravan . . .
. . . and on they rode.
Three days passed and a part of another ere the golden sun in a high blue sky found Aravan and Aylis riding up the Pitch, a long slope of land rising into the embrace of the Quadran—four mountains lying more or less in a square: To the left flank stood ashen Greytower, and just to the west loomed ebon Grimspire; to the right soared azure-hued Loftcrag, while straight ahead towered ruddy Stormhelm. It was toward this latter they were headed, for there stood the Dawn Gate, the eastern entry into Kraggen-cor.
They had followed a pave past a rune-carved realmstone, announcing that from this point forward they trod upon a Dwarven domain.
They passed by another realmstone, this one broken, the top half of the column missing. It stood on a stone ledge jutting out from the shore of a small lakelet fed by the flow of the Quadrill down from the steeps lying between Stormhelm and Loftcrag. “Here at the Quadmere it was that First Durek declared this realm to belong to the Drimma of his line,” said Aravan, looking toward the shorn pillar.
Aylis frowned and turned her head to the right. “What is that distant roar?”
“ ’Tis the Vorvor, Durek’s Wheel, a whirlpool in a fold of stone along the flank of Loftcrag. There a furious river bursts forth from the mountain and spins ’round a stone basin to disappear down through a central cavity, like unto a drain in a vat. Whence from there, none knows. ’Tis said First Durek was cast by Rûpt into that wrath and drawn far below the earth. ’Twas then that the Drimmen war with the Spaunen began, and has raged so ever since.”
“Not a pleasant way to leave this life,” said Aylis.
“Oh, he survived,” said Aravan, “yet whether he died or merely came to Death’s door is in some dispute among the Drimma. Some contend he passed into that realm, but fought his way back out. Knowing the stubbornness of the Drimma, I would not dispute that claim.”
Aylis laughed and on they rode, and within a mile they crossed a stone courtyard to come before the eastern gate into Drimmen-deeve, its massive iron leaves standing open and warded by four armed and armored Dwarves.
Escorted by the captain of the gate ward, a dark-haired, dark-eyed Dwarf named Brekk, past the great iron doors of the portal known as the Dawn Gate and into an entry hall they went, the hooves of their horses clattering upon rock. Delved out of the red granite of Stormhelm, and with the smell of stone in the air, the chamber before them was huge: perhaps two hundred yards in length and nearly as wide. The ceiling above stood some thirty feet high and was covered with machicolations, murder holes from which would rain death—burning oil and melted lead and crossbow bolts and darts and other such—in the unlikely event an invader breached the formidable outer gates. All along the walls were slots in the stone, arrow slits, through which more bolts would fly; they were steel-shuttered from behind and closed at this time.
Past these formidable defenses Aravan and Aylis followed Brekk toward an exit at the far end, an outlet which led into a broad corridor and down, gently sloping into the interior of Drimmen-deeve. And with the shod hooves of the trailing horses echoing from the nearby stone walls, they passed into this roadway. As if she were using her
Aylis whispered, “A gate, a great iron plate, set to drop down the grooves and into the channel below and seal the way?”
Aravan nodded.
Aylis murmured, “How do they lock it down, and afterward pull it back up?”
“I ween they have latch bolts in a corridor above and a geared winch to haul it back up,” said Aravan.
Along the wide corridor they went, the hallway lit blue-green by phosphorescent Châkka lanterns, casting a ghastly aspect over all. Down through this spectral glow they trod, along the gentle descent, more murder holes overhead, with the faint hint of an odor of oil drifting down. A furlong or so they went this way, when the corridor came to an end at last, with another floor channel and more wall grooves, while ensconced in an overhead slot a thick iron slab awaited. They issued out onto a broad landing at the top of a short flight of wide stairs leading down to a broad shelf of stone, which in turn came to an abrupt end at a wide rift cleft in the rock. Black and yawning, the deep abyss barred the way: the ebon gape split out of a vast crack in the high rock wall on one side to jag across the expansive stone floor and disappear into another great crack on the opposite wall. It was a mighty barrier, some fifty feet across at the narrowest point, a hundred or more at the widest. Over the immense chasm spanned a broad wooden drawbridge, and a shielded winch on the far side stood ready to hale the counterweighted bascule up and away and lock it in place at need. Dwarven warriors warded the hoist and the bridge.
Beyond the mighty fissure the wide stone floor continued, and by the light of Dwarven lanterns affixed in wall sconces Aylis could see the whole of a vast chamber: its extent was a mile or more, its width mayhap half that, its high-vaulted ceiling some hundred feet up, the roof of the chamber supported by four rows of giant pillars marching away to the end.
“Yon is the War Hall,” said Aravan, “a mustering chamber should enemies march up Falanith to threaten this holt.”
“Falanith is the Pitch?”
“Aye,” replied Aravan.
Brekk nodded his agreement and said, “We have mustered here many a time when the Grg tried to conquer this place. Some have managed to breach the old outer gates, but none has ever won across the Great Deôp against the assembled Châkka.”
Aylis said, “I was told an army of Spawn once occupied Drimmen-deeve.”
“Aye, it is true.” Brekk glanced at Châk-Sol Aravan, and then at Aylis. As if making up his mind, he took a deep breath and slowly let it out and then said, “It was after the Ghath—the Gargon—was set free and we were driven from this place. During the Winter War, Modru sent a Horde of Squam to Kraggen-cor, making ready to conquer this part of Mithgar. But his Ghath was slain by the Deevewalkers, and afterward Modru was defeated. There passed two hundred years and some, but at last Seventh Durek brought an army to reclaim our holt, and the Squam were conquered in the War of Kraggen-cor.”
Aylis turned to Aravan. “Deevewalkers?”
“I could tell you that tale, Chier, but in the library of the Eroean is a copy of The Ravenbook, wherein the entire story is recorded. It is a gripping saga, and one that you will find to your liking.”
“Then I will wait,” said Aylis. “But the story of the Gargon in this stronghold is one I will winnow out for myself.”
A dark look crossed Brekk’s features, as if speaking of those long-past days filled him with shame, for, just as in the story of Blackstone, wherein the Châkka had fled their holt, stolen by the Dragon Sleeth, here the Dwarves had abandoned their homeland, to
o, had fled from an enemy they could not defeat.
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