roar. Rock smashed upon rock, hammering, shattering, pulverizing, destroying. It seemed as if the vast collapse would never stop…
But suddenly it was over: the thundering rockfall ended. Slowly the rolling echoes of cracking stone and cleaving rock died away. Billowing stone dust whirled and settled, and the survivors gazed stunned across the wreckage. Volume upon volume of stone had crashed down into the chamber. Only along the walls had the roof been sound, and the Dwarves who had assembled mere had, for the most part, escaped the carnage, although here and there a few huge rocks had bounded and crashed to crush some unfortunate Dwarves. But in the center of the chamber, all living things had perished: All the myriad Rucks and Hloks. And Borin.
Hie battle was finished, the War over. Four fifths of the Dwarves had been slain in battle; ten thousand Spaunen had died, two thirds at the hand of the Host, the rest by falling stone. Perry looked out across the wreckage:
'Many perish, Death the Master, Dwarves shall mourn Forever after.''
Durek had taken the silent bugle from his lips. Stunned, he looked across the shattered sea of stone. He turned to Cotton and gave him the Horn of the Reach, now softly glowing with but the gentle sheen of fine silver and no longer flaring with glitterbright fire. Cotton took it with numb fingers and unconsciously hung it over his shoulder.
At last Cotton had seen the connection between Perry's pain-driven, rambling speech and the crashing down of the ceiling. Cotton, too, now remembered Anval's warning in the Crestan Pass of just how the right sound would cause rock to jink and come roaring in avalanche. And he remembered Anval's exact words: 'We Chakka believe that each thing in this world will shake or rattle or fall or even shatter apart if just the right note is sounded on the right instrument,'' And the Horn of the Reach-the Horn of Narok, the Death-War- crafted ages ago by an unknown hand, had been created for just this event: created against the day when Dwarves, driven to their uttermost limits, would have to bring the vast ziggurt roof of the immense War Hall down upon some great horde of enemies. The Staves of Narok were not made to warn Dwarves against riding on horseback. No, for that line in the ode spoke only of the drumming sound the rock would make in the event the hom was winded. And to Cotton it was now plain that the vault referred to in the rede was the wide ceiling of this huge stone chamber; til now, Cotton had suspected that the vault of the poem was the sky above and that somehow the Staves were related to the Dwarves' belief that falling stars foretold of Death's coming. But Mister Perry had figured it all out, and just barely in time, too.
Cotton was wrenched from his stunned thoughts and back to the here and now by an anguished cry from Perry, who was staring toward the center of the chamber. 'Oh, Borin, Anval, we loved you and now you are gone.' And the wounded buccan began weeping as, slowly, the healers started moving among the Host, tending the injured. And Shannon came to Perry and examined the arrow standing forth from the juncture between the Waerling's chest and shoulder.
As the Elf prepared to extract the barb, with Cotton hovering nearby, ready to aid, King Durek began to make his way along the wall, at the edge of the wrack, seeing but too benumbed to fathom the total destruction wrought in the War of Kraggen-cor: The great War Hall was destroyed. Tons unnumbered of fallen ziggurt ramped upward toward the center of the chamber; like a vast cairn, it covered the crushed bodies of all the Okhs and Hroks, all the Chakka slain in battle, the Troll felled by Rand and Kian, and Gnar's slayer, Borin Ironfist. Here and there a broken Dragon Pillar jutted upward through the great heap, a jagged reminder of the ancient rows of columns, now collapsed and part of the rubble. Durek also made his way past many of the eight hundred or so surviving Chakka quietly and methodically binding up each other's wounds. All were stunned by the cataclysmic ruin, and had not yet realized the staggering cost of their victory.
King Durek saw the devastation, but he, too, did not comprehend, until at last he came upon Lord Kian. Nearby lay the axe Kian had carried back into battle: one bit broken, the other blade chipped and jagged, the helve cracked, the iron and oak now awash with black Grg-blood; Lord Kian had wielded it beyond its endurance, for his vengeance had been mighty. Kian also was drenched, some of it Squam gore, some of it his own blood, for he, too, was wounded-by spear thrust and scimitar cut-although not mortally; but Prince Rand was dead, slain by Troll War-bar. And Lord Kian huddled on the stone floor, hugging his brother's lifeless body to his breast, and he wept and rocked in distress.
Durek gazed on in sorrow, and Lord Kian looked up through his tears at the Dwarf. 'When we were but lads,' wept Kian, 'we were in the market, and Rand took up a turtle-shell comb in his hand. And he laughed happily over the raft we had made and ridden to Rhondor and sold for two silver pennies. And Rand bought that comb for Mother, and we went home and gave it to her, and Rand glowed in the pleasure of her delight. We began planning a new raft: two children rejoicing in the flush of youth, as close in life as two brothers who loved one another could ever be. But now he is dead and nevermore will we laugh together, for the lad who plied rafts with me to Rhondor has now sailed without me on his final journey.' And Lord Kian rocked and keened in his grief.
It was in this poignant moment of kin-death lamentation that at last the cost of the victory came clear to Durek. And the overwhelming despair of the War-loss uncontrollably welled up in the Dwarf King; and he quickly pulled his hood over his head, and his face fell into shadow, for no one should see the heartgrief of Dwarves-for to look upon Dwarf bale is to gaze upon sorrow beyond measure. And the Dwarf King sank to his knees and choked upon his own woe. His glistening tears fell to splash upon the stone, and great sobs racked his frame as he and Lord Kian and uncounted others grieved in deep despair along the wall behind the jumble and scree of fallen ziggurt. But the slain of the Death-War heeded them not.
CHAPTER 9
Two weeks passed, and Perry's wound steadily healed. The black shaft had driven through muscle, all vital parts having been missed, and the barb had not been poisoned. Both Warrows' spirits, however, were greatly injured, for four out of every five of the Host had fallen, and nearly all of their comrades had perished. Cotton was often seen searching, looking for some sign of Bomar and the cook-waggon crew; but he found them not, for they had been slain in combat and were buried under tons of stone in the ruined War Hall; and he wept for them and for Rand and for all the others lost. And Perry, too, spent long days in anguish, remembering Delk and gruff Barak, and huge Ursor, and the ironfist brothers, Anval and Bonn. And the Warrows thought upon all the times that were, and they grieved for all the times that might have been but now would never be. Of their close companions, only Durek, Shannon, and Kian remained, and a desolate mood haunted them as well as each of those of the Host who had survived: King Durek looked upon his won Kingdom, but felt only grief. Lord Kian stood for long moments and stared without seeing into the dark corners of Kraggen-cor. Often someone-anyone-would be seen with his face buried in his hands. All were stunned by the overwhelming losses of their victory. And their heartgrief filled them.
On the seventh day after the battle, word came from the Dusk-Door of Brytta's safety and that of the Vanadurin; yet this good news caused no celebration, only quiet relief. Even the arrival on the tenth day of a force of Dylvana Elves from Darda Galion stirred little excitement. How the Elves had become aware of the victory, none knew-or would say although Cotton did overhear an Elf Captain speaking to Silverleaf, asserting, 'We came at your summons, Alor Vanidar.' But the buccan did not see how Shannon could have sent a message, and thus dismissed it from his mind.
At last Perry came to King Durek and said, 'I can stand this sorrow no longer. My physical wound is well enough to travel'-and the Warrow flexed his fingers and turned his hand over and again, and then stiffly he eased his arm from the sling and set the cloth aside-'but my very being is sorely injured. I must go to a place of quiet and solitude, a place far removed from the reflections of War and evil memories, a place where pleasures are simple and time goes slowly. King Durek, I am reluming home to the Bosky, for The Root calls me with an irresistible voice, and I must answer, and rest, and be drawn forth from this bleak place where my heart and spirit have been driven.'
And Durek saw that the Warrow was indeed injured far beyond what the eye could see. 'Come with me,'
