Jinna looked as though there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Cale, of course we will. These are a wonderful gift! And you will be there with us.”
“It’s just a pair of rings.” Cale said, embarrassed. “No big thing. Just — well, just think about me if I don’t see you again before your time. I’ll think of both of you, too.”
Without another word, Cale turned and strode away, his wrapped sword over his shoulder. He had said his brief goodbyes — to Tolon and Tera, to his father, and now to Handil and his Jinna. He was anxious to be away, to put the familiar sights of Thorin behind him, and see what some of the distant places held.
He was certain that the sword he carried had belonged to Agate Coalglow, and they said the horse that had returned was Piquin — Sledge Two-Fires’ favorite mount. It seemed certain now that the western patrol was dead, killed by wild humans. Agate had been Cale’s friend, and Sledge Two-Fires was a dwarf he had admired. It seemed appropriate to Cale that he take with him something of them when he went to look for clues to their fate.
Clues, and a look at what lay beneath the Suncradles — and maybe what lay beyond.
*
It was evening when Cale Greeneye rode out from Thorin, mounted on the high back of Piquin and followed by six other young adventurers who had volunteered to go with him. The sun was setting beyond the Suncradles, and soft evening light lay on the valleys. But both visible moons were in the sky, and there was light enough for travel. The horses were fresh, and the trails open.
Cale looked back, just once, at the great outer wall of Thorin. “Thorin-Dwarfhome,” he whispered. “Thorin-Everbardin, keep my soul. Welcome this one home should I never return.”
Then he turned his eyes westward, where the last glow of day outlined the wavy peaks of the Suncradles. “Keep pace,” he called to his companions. “There is a lot of world to see out there, and no better time than the present.”
Eyes watched them all the way across the Valley of the Bone and out the Chandera Road — furtive, sullen human eyes, hidden in shadows all along a closing line which would soon be a human cordon around Thorin. Eyes watched, but no man lifted a hand. The seven armed and mounted dwarves were packed for travel, and they were going away. They didn’t matter. They would be not be here to interfere with what Grayfen planned for the citadel of the dwarves.
6
The Betrayal
Bram Talien was worried. As trademaster of Chandera, he was responsible for the caravan wending its way toward Thorin, for the midsummer fair that the dwarves called Balladine. Normally, the annual journey was more a pleasure than a worry. As a trader and merchant, Bram Talien enjoyed visiting the Calnar fortress. It was a challenge to match wits with Cullom Hammerstand, the dwarves’ warden of trade, and he had a deep respect for Colin Stonetooth.
The dwarves were not human, of course, but there were dwarves whose company Bram Talien preferred over that of some people he knew.
The caravan was like a traveling city. Carts, wagons, barrows, pack beasts and laden travois by the hundreds wound upward on the mountain road in a line that was sometimes three miles long in the narrow passages, and fully half of the citizens of Chandera trudged along among them, tending stock and driving teams.
Here was the annual commodity wealth of Chandera: grains from lowland fields, spices and scents from the Bloten frontiers, hardwood timbers from the forests bounding the plains of eastern Ergoth, bonemeal and herbs, wooden baskets, tapestries and rugs, and a dozen kinds of wicker furniture. All were things that the dwarves of Thorin cherished and would trade for with their own commodities. And in special wagons near the front of the line was a real prize, something that would make the dwarven traders’ eyes go wide and their bids go high.
Most of the men were armed, and dozens of them were mounted, riding guard on the train. Never in memory had a Balladine caravan been seriously threatened. Sometimes thieves would try to slip into a night camp to filch whatever they could find, and now and then a wandering band of nomads might shadow the train for a day or so, but a caravan in strength was a formidable company, and there had never been an attack. But now Bram Talien was apprehensive.
All through the land, it seemed, things were changing. Just in the past year, strangers had come among them in Chandera, and it seemed to Bram that among his own people — the subjects of Riffin Two-Tree the Wise — moods had shifted. There was talk of Chandera being “poor,” and talk of fortune hunting. It was disturbing. Sometimes Bram felt as though some Chanderans were turning from the old ways and looking in strange, new directions. A sullen, angry discontent was spreading where before had been contentment.
And now there was the more immediate concern — the strangers in the distance, who clung to the caravan route as though the caravan were a flock of sheep being herded. The scouts reported large groups of people — strangers all — flanking and paralleling them, and hardly an hour passed that there were not people on the hilltops watching them.
Bram Talien had told Cullom Hammerstand’s dwarven agents about the strangers on Chandera land and of his concerns. It was common for the chiefs of trade to share such information prior to Balladine. But now, two days out from Riffin Two-Tree’s village, he realized that there were far more strangers in the land than he had known. They seemed to be everywhere — wild-looking, oddly dressed men who might have been assembled from dozens of different tribes — and the only certain thing about them was that they were all armed.
The land was full of movers these days, it seemed. Refugees from the south brought tales of horror, of dragons a’wing over Silvanesti, of dragonfear and dragonfire and awful magics which spread like sand on the winds: trees that danced and captured spirits, bogs that erupted vile acids, stones that exploded, and lightnings that crackled through the forests to find and strike some living thing.
How many dragons were there? Some said one or two, some said hundreds. Personally, Bram Talien doubted that any of the travelers had seen more than a few dragons, if any at all, but that did not diminish his concerns. One dragon alone would be enough to start panic and breed mass migrations.
The stories meshed in some way with the strange disappearance of elves from the realms of the eastern Khalkists. Elven parties had been common in past times. They had crossed Chandera now and then in their journeys and had shared fires with Chanderan herdsmen and patrols.
Often, in olden times, elves had even come to the dwarves’ Balladine, and the goods they brought to trade were much coveted.
But it had been several seasons now since Bram Talien had even seen an elf, though Riffin Two-Tree’s scouts had recently reported large numbers of what looked like western elves skirting the mountains south of Bloten, eastward-bound … eastward, toward Silvanesti.
Something was going on in the south, and the results in these lands were bands of migrants, uprooted tribes moving from where they had been to wherever they were going. But there was something different about the people who now flanked the Chanderan caravan. These did not look like refugees. They looked more like mercenaries.
Spurring his chestnut pony, Bram Talien rode forward along the plodding line of the caravan, feeling the wind in his beard as the horse ran. Though only half the size of the great, gold-and-white horses of Thorin, the chestnut was a good mount, as fast and strong as any in Chandera, and it was the trademaster’s favorite.
Forward of the camp carts, near the front of the train, eight high-sided wagons rolled along, each drawn by a double string of oxen. Bram slowed, casting a careful eye over the wagons and their teams and rigging. Here was the special commodity with which he hoped to gain trade concessions from Cullom Hammerstand. In the high ranges on the eastern perimeter of Chandera, diggers had found a large deposit of the shiny, black firestone that the dwarves used to smelt iron and make their steel.
Cullom Hammerstand would do everything in his power to try to get the firestone for a low price. Bram smiled faintly, imagining the posturings and hand-wringing the wily dwarf would
go through, trying to trade him down. Chandera would see a handsome profit this year at Balladine.
Some of the drivers and crewmen tending the high wagons turned to watch the trademaster pass, and one or two waved.
He waved back. “Tend your loads well,” he called. “This year we will out-trade the dwarves of Thorin.”
“We’ll get this stuff there, Trademaster,” a man called, “but it’s your task to see we get a good price for it.”
Bram nodded and started ahead again, then frowned as another voice came to him on the wind — another man, speaking to his companions. “If we had the dwarves’ smelters and forges, we’d have no need to trade with them,” the voice said angrily. “If we had Thorin, we’d make our own steel, and high time we did. Those selfish, bit-pinching dinks have held Thorin too long, as I see it.”
Bram looked around, but whoever had spoken had turned away, and the others looked away as well. … Were they embarrassed at the words? Or did some among them agree?
It was troubling.
At the head of the caravan, Bram pulled up alongside Riffin Two-Tree, chief of the Chanderans. The chief rode a white horse and carried sword and shield as he always did when afield. With his iron-gray beard and studded helmet, his shoulders bulging against the seams of his leather-and-bronze coat, Riffin Two-Tree looked as fierce and formidable as he always had, until one approached very closely. Then the fading color of his cheeks, the slight moistness of his crinkled eyes, were a reminder that this man had been chief for more than fifty years, and was older — despite his stamina — than most humans ever expected to be.
“News from ahead?” the trademaster asked.
Riffin glanced around at Bram, his old eyes troubled. “We’ll be at the meadows below Thorin by nightfall,” he said, “but the scouts say the encampment is full — people everywhere.”
“The Golash caravan is there ahead of us?”
“Not Golash.” The old chief shook his head. “Garr Lanfel’s train is still a day away. These are others — hundreds of armed men, like those who flank us in the hills. The scouts say their encampments fill half the valley already, with more arriving by the hour. And they carry no trade goods of any kind.”
Bram Talien frowned. “What does it mean, my chief? What is happening?”
“It could mean trouble for the dwarves of Thorin,” Riffin Two-Tree said. “It has the look of an invasion, and if we’re not careful we could find ourselves caught up in it.”
“Then we should stay back,” Bram suggested. “Thorin is Chandera’s friend. We have no argument with the dwarves.”
Riffin turned to look at him. “Are you sure, Bram? You have heard the talk, just as I have.”
“Some of our people are discontented,” Bram agreed. “It comes of jealousy, I think.”
“I think it is more,” Riffin rasped. “I think there are those among us who are doing their best to spread hatred toward the dwarves.”
“But why?”
“To serve someone’s purpose, obviously. But you are right, Bram. We will hold back until we know what is going on. I want no part in any plot against Colin Stonetooth’s people … for more reasons than one.”
Bram nodded. “They are our friends.”
“Yes, they are our friends. But even if they weren’t, I’d want no part of war with Thorin. Don’t ever underestimate the dwarves, Bram. They would be a formidable enemy.”
“Thank the gods we don’t need to test that,” Bram said. “Once within sight of Thorin, I’ll call a halt. We’ll keep our distance for a day or so, until we know — ”
A shout from the rear interrupted him, and he turned. All along the caravan, flankers were closing in — the strangers, coming out of the hills, closing in on the long train like a well-organized cordon.
And just ahead, at the top of a rise, riders appeared — heavily armed men, spreading out across the road.
Riffin Two-Tree drew his shield from his shoulder and unslung his blade. All around him, Chanderan guards followed suit. Bram Talien spun his pony around and raced back along the caravan, shouting, “Alarm! Alarm! Close for defense!”
The rearward sections were already in motion, drivers whipping up their teams and carters grabbing their leads. Within moments, the long, ambling line of the caravan was a shortening, thickening thing, widening at center as the heavier vehicles pulled out right and left to let the travois, pack beasts, and sleds move in between them. Women, children, and old people were hurried forward, carrying their personal gear, into the center of the closing mass of vehicles and stock. Men not driving teams grabbed up their weapons and ranked themselves along the outer perimeter, their lines closing as the caravan became a moving oval compound, then a tightly-packed circle.
Suddenly, here and there, chaos erupted. Here a team broke free from its traces, leaving a wagon stranded. There a runner-barge overturned, spilling its load. Elsewhere two carts collided and broke down where they sat.
Bram Talien saw some of these things and drew his own blade. “Sabotage!” he muttered, heading into the crowd around a broken wagon. But armed men confronted him there, denying him entrance. A man he knew — Grif Newgrass, one of his own neighbors — raised a heavy sword and shouted, “Stand back, Trademaster. There’ll be no trading this year. We’ve a better way to get what the dwarves have!”
Bram circled about on his mount, trying to understand what was happening, and found himself surrounded by riders, all carrying their weapons at hand. The strangers were upon them, surrounding them, and in the distance ahead, at the front of the caravan where old Riffin Two-Tree and the Chanderan guards were, steel rang on steel.
The trademaster saw a wagon driver pitch from his seat, clutching at an arrow in his throat. He saw a line of barbarians charge, with lances and swords, into a cluster of panicked Chanderan workers. He wheeled his horse and dodged a spearpoint as an attacker lunged at him. With a flick of his sword he scored the man’s cheek, then drove the blade home beneath his chest-plate. The man screamed and twisted, and Bram fought to withdraw the sword. Something rang against his helmet, sending it flying from his head. He freed his sword, twisted sideways in his saddle, and started to swing at the man behind him … and again something hit him — this time a solid, clubbing blow against his temple.
The world went dark for Bram Talien.
He awakened slowly, fighting the throbbing ache in his head. When he tried to move, pain blinded him for long moments, but finally he fought it down, opened his eyes, and raised his head.
He lay in a crude tent of some kind. A fire burned near his feet, and smoke hung thick above the heads of the men who sat around it, watching him. Bram’s hand went to his belt, but there were no weapons there.
The man nearest was burly and dark-bearded and looked familiar. He turned his head, and the trademaster recognized him. It was Grif Newgrass. The others were strangers — outlanders. Grif grinned and nodded his head. “You’re awake,” he pointed out. “That’s good. Thought maybe our new friends had killed you.”
With a tongue as dry as leather and a voice that was no more than a rasping whisper, Bram Talien asked, “What is happening, Grif? Who are these men?”
“Doesn’t matter who they are,” the man said. “Only thing that matters for you is to do exactly like you’re told. You see, the old chief … well, he kind of met with an accident, so now the good people of Chandera need somebody to answer to. Somebody they’re used to answering to. You’re the trademaster, so you’ll do. We’ll tell you what to say to them.”
“What do you want?”
“Why” — the man’s beard split in a toothy grin — “we got business with those dinks in Thorin. That’s what our new friends call dwarves. Good word, isn’t it? — Dinks. They have what we want, and we’re going to take it.”
“Thorin’s what we want,” another man growled. “Time human people had that place. Our leader has plans for it. The dinks know you. You’ve done business with them. So you’ll be our decoy and our shiel
d.”
“Why should I do what you say?” Bram struggled to a sitting position, his head ringing with pain.
The man waved a casual hand. “Show him, Clote.”
Across the tent, the one called Clote stood and pulled back a wide flap, opening the shelter. Beyond was the remains of the caravan — teams and conveyances drawn into a solid ring. Within the ring, Chanderan men labored, carrying things here and there, while armed strangers — and a few Chanderan traitors — strode among them, supervising.
And in the center of the enclosure a crude fence had been erected. As men moved past it, Bram’s eyes widened in shock. Within the fence were women and children. At the corners of the fence, archers sat atop short towers. At a signal from the man at the tent flap, rough men pushed into the enclosure, shoving women and children aside, then appeared at the fence holding two women, pushing them forward into view.
Bram’s mouth twisted in a snarl. “Chara,” he muttered. “And Corian.” With a lunge, he tried to get to his feet. His hands went out, searching for a weapon — or for a throat to throttle. Grif Newgrass punched him cruelly in the stomach, then kicked his feet from under him. “You just don’t understand, do you, Bram?” he spat. “Riffin Two-Tree and his soldiers are dead, and you’re not in charge any more. We are.”
“Told you those women would get his attention,” another man chuckled. “The trademaster’s wife and his daughter. Just say the word, Grif, an’ I’ll see to both of them, myself.”
The dark-bearded one ignored him, gazing indifferently at Bram Talien. “That’s why,” he said, casually. “Right there’s the reason why you and everybody else here will do exactly as you’re told.” He glanced outside, then turned again, a cruel smile parting his beard. “Oh, and don’t expect any help from the Golash bunch. Grayfen’s people have them, too, just like we have you.”
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