Hammer and Axe

by Dan Parkinson

  Willow crawled out from behind the flow column, and Damon saw her. Leaping over the creature’s twitching tail, the big Hylar dodged under the screw and pulled the girl to her feet. He stared at her for a moment, then dropped his hammer and shield, caught her up in strong arms, and lifted her entirely off the floor, pressing her against him.

  “Damon!” she managed, almost breathless. “Damon, quit that! Put me down!”

  Reluctantly, he set her back on her feet. “You’re alive,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “I told you I’d get that thing,” she reminded him. “I got it.”

  “You certainly did.” He glanced again toward the almost closed gate, throttling the beast’s neck. “Do you suppose it’s dead?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what it takes to kill a … one of those.”

  “Well, it sure isn’t going anywhere.” Tag Salan chuckled, ducking under the screw to get a better look at the fog-creature, which was still twitching. “I guess it can just stay where it is until we’re sure it’s finished. Do you think this is a dragon of some kind?”

  “I don’t think so,” Damon said. “But it may be the kind of thing that dragons came from.” He turned back to Willow, still holding her arms with both hands. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She gazed up at him. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well,” he said, “there is an old legend here in Thorbardin. It’s about me. I don’t know what to make of it, but … well, I wonder if you would be interested, possibly, in being the mother of kings?”

  Epilogue

  The Proper Thing To Do

  Thousand of dwarves jammed the ramparts of Southgate as Cale Greeneye and the Council of Thanes met there to supervise the removal of fallen weapons from the battlefields below. The Einar, who had waited out the siege within Thorbardin, were going home now, back to their herds and their fields. But few of those leaving would ever again think of themselves as Einar. During their stay in Thorbardin, most had decided between the hammer and the axe.

  Some were remaining behind, to join the thanes within the underground nation. But most were returning to the outside, and most of those, having chosen the sun over the stone, would henceforth be Neidar.

  “We have learned a great lesson here,” old Olim Goldbuckle stated to those around him. “Willen was right. Thorbardin is invulnerable to siege, but without the Neidar outside, to complement the Holgar within, it cannot stand as the fortress of Kal-Thax.”

  “We are becoming, more and more, two separate peoples,” Slide Tolec agreed. “The Holgar thanes have fought outside Thorbardin and yearned to withdraw within. The Neidar have dwelt within Thorbardin, and have yearned for the open skies. I wonder if we can ever truly be one again.”

  “Or if we ever were,” Vog Ironface rumbled. “It may be that an age is coming to its end.”

  “Ages begin and end only in the fettered minds of scrollsters,” Olim pronounced, then turned a wry grin toward Quill Runebrand. “No offense intended, Keeper of Lore. Without your peculiar reasonings, how would the rest of us ever know when yesterday ends and tomorrow begins?”

  Willen shook his head, uncomfortable as always with the bantering of his peers. The old leaders seemed to become more philosophical with every passing year. Especially the jovial, flint-hearted old Daewar, Olim Goldbuckle, and the intuitive Theiwar, Slide Tolec. And yet, to Willen it often seemed that the less sense his chieftain-peers made, the more wisdom might be found in what they said. To his soldier’s mentality, it was a riddle beyond solution.

  “Will you be coming back soon?” he asked Cale Greeneye.

  “To visit, of course.” The Neidar nodded. “But maybe never again to live. Olim is right about the lesson we have learned. A fortress that nobody can get out of is as pointless as one that nobody can get into. The gates of Thorbardin must be able to open, as well as to close, and for that, there must be Neidar outside to protect the fortress, just as the fortress protects the lands around it.”

  “We will only become more separate as the ages pass,” Willen said, then glanced around sheepishly. He realized that he was beginning to sound just as vague and wise as the other chieftains.

  “Different, yes,” Cale Greeneye said. “We were always different, the people of the stone and the people of the sun. But not necessarily separate. We out here need the security of your presence, just as you need ours. Besides, differences can strengthen bonds if they are good bonds to start with. We’ve seen an example of that, too.”

  “We have?”

  “Your son … my nephew, and his Einar girl. Those two have only one thing in common, but it is their differences that will make their bond succeed.”

  “I suppose so.” Willen shrugged. “You’re probably right, because Tera said the very same thing to me just yesterday. She isn’t often wrong in such matters. By the way, good luck with your kender.”

  “What kender?”

  “That little nuisance that has been roaming Thorbardin lately. You didn’t know? Well, she showed up at Hybardin and proclaimed that she has finished her tour of Thorbardin and intends to go see the outlands now. With you.”

  “Like blazes she will!”

  “As I said,” Willen said, “good luck with your kender.”

  Quist Redfeather was playing bones with his jailers when Willen Ironmaul came for him. For a long time—for weeks, it seemed, though in this underground place the Cobar had lost track of time—he had been held captive in what he had learned was the ward chamber behind the Southgate keep. It had not been cruel captivity. They had fed him well, had given him ale now and then, and had not tormented him. But it was still captivity, without question. The grim armed dwarves who guarded his quarters left no doubt that he was not going anywhere unless and until someone in authority ordered it.

  The Cobar had made two vows to himself. The first was that if he ever got out he would never again get mixed up in dwarf business. The second was that, after this, he would never again play games with dwarves. The game of bones had always been a favorite pastime for Quist, and he took pride in being good at it. But, somehow, he was now down to his last arrowhead. He had already lost all of his weapons. Although he had been relieved of them upon entry, now they no longer belonged to him, but to various dwarven jailers. He had lost his boots, his cloak, his favorite feathered headgear, and he had lost his copper bracelet. A jovial, gold-bearded guard named Plaid Silvernail was wearing it now.

  For all of his watchfulness, he had found no evidence that any of the dwarves cheated at bones. Still, they usually won. So, by the time a band of dwarves showed up from the interior with orders for his release into their custody, Quist Redfeather was ready for a change.

  The new guards were thoroughly armored and efficient. All had the same dark, back-swept beards that he had noticed on Damon Omenborn. He suspected they were of the tribe called Hylar.

  Briskly, they escorted him along a corridor where a huge auger-banded metal screw sat in great sockets, and past the massive gate-plug that had awed him the first time he saw it, and still did. Beyond, on the walled ledge outside Thorbardin, others waited. The one who stepped forward, peering up at him with hard, wise eyes, bore a striking resemblance to Damon Omenborn, though this dwarf was older and had a stance that suggested high position.

  “I am Willen Ironmaul,” the dwarf said in a voice that was like smooth, deep riversong. “My son told me how you helped him, and how you behaved with honor when you might have done otherwise.” Without waiting for an answer, the dwarf turned and started down the rampart. “Come with me, human,” he said.

  Quist followed along. He would have followed, even if he hadn’t wanted to, because of the ten efficient-looking armed dwarves who ringed him and herded him forward. At the bottom of the rampart, Willen Ironmaul clapped his hands, and other dwarves came from beyond new, fresh-hewn battlements. They led twelve horses, eleven of them wearing the saddles and gear of dwarven
mounts, the twelfth magnificently attired in human-proportioned trappings.

  As Quist gaped at the horse, pursing his lips in appreciation of its fine lines and handsome appearance, Willen Ironmaul said, “This animal is Damon Omenborn’s best horse. Its name is Shamath. It is yours now, by my son’s wish.”

  The man stepped toward the animal, hardly believing his ears, then paused. He glanced aside at the Hylar chieftain. “It’s a real horse, isn’t it? I mean, it isn’t a wizard or something? It won’t sprout wings?”

  For a second, the grim lines of the dwarf’s visage softened. He almost smiled, then straightened his face. “Shamath is a horse,” he assured the human. “He has never been anything but a horse.” He clapped his hands again, and one of the ten escorts produced a bundle, which he handed to Quist. Within it were an exquisite light shield of dwarven craft; a strong, recurved bow of fine lemonwood; a beautiful dagger; a thick, bound sheaf of arrows with dwarven steel points; and various straps and wraps for the implements. Another of the escort stepped forward with a parcel which contained Quist’s own lost boots, cloak, copper bracelet, and feather headgear.

  “I had to buy those things back from your, ah, hosts of the gate,” Willen Ironmaul said severely. “They cost me a nice price, too. Even a human should know better than to play bones with a Daewar.”

  Without further explanation, the dwarves mounted their horses, clambering up the short boarding ladders slung from their saddles, and at a gesture from the Hylar chieftain, Quist swung aboard Shamath. He knew the instant his legs cradled the animal’s big barrel that he had never ridden a finer horse.

  Still surrounded by armed dwarves, the man was led away, riding out from the dwarven fortress toward the Promontory, angling eastward toward the border roads.

  It was a three-day trip from Southgate to the secluded cove above the Road of Passage, where the dwarves took their guest, and not once in those three days did any of them, Willen Ironmaul or the Ten, give him a word of explanation as to where they were going, or why. Dwarves, Quist Redfeather decided for the hundredth time, could be the most exasperating people in the world.

  Still, he had no choice, and, except for being kept in the dark, he was treated courteously.

  Then, on the third evening, they topped out on a low crest directly above the cove where the Road of Passage crossed from dwarven to human lands. Below them were tents, fires, and people—human people, doing human things.

  Willen Ironmaul rode up beside the man then and pointed. “That tent there, the one with the awning. Tell me who you see there.”

  Quist squinted in the dusk, then his eyes widened in disbelief. “Seena,” he said hoarsely. “My wife! And those are my children! But they were captives! The overlords …”

  “There has been a change in the city of Xak Tsaroth,” Willen Ironmaul told him. “The overlords have been overthrown, and others are in power there now. We may be able to work out some trade agreements with the new proprietors, our trade warden tells us. He says Darr Bolden and his followers seem like reasonable people … for humans.”

  Quist stared down at the evening fires, his eyes round as he gazed at the familiar figures and dear faces of his family. He raised his reins, then hesitated, turning. “Your son, Damon … He arranged this for me?”

  “It seemed the proper thing to do,” Willen Ironmaul said gruffly.

  “Where is he? Where is Damon?”

  “My son,” the Hylar said, “was married a few days ago to a very stubborn little Einar girl with auburn hair and iron opinions. Following the wedding, they took up new quarters in Hybardin and … well, they haven’t been seen since.”

  Quist nodded. “Then let me thank you,” he said, extending his hand.

  With a growl, the Hylar chief reined his mount and turned away. “I’ll never understand humans,” he rumbled, glancing back. “If that were my family down there, I wouldn’t be wasting time up here chatting.” The Hylar snapped his reins and headed back the way he had come, his ten escorts falling in behind him.

  “Dwarves,” Quist Redfeather muttered, shaking his head. “Of all the … all the …” At a loss for words, even to himself, he drummed Shamath with his heels and headed for the cove where his family awaited him.

  Behind him, high on a mountain shoulder, Willen Ironmaul glanced back, then turned to the First of the Ten. “When we return, Cable,” he said, “go and find the trade warden. Tell him those fields of grain he has been coveting—in the Cobar lands north of Ergoth—may yield profitable trade for us now that we have a grateful Cobar to speak for us there.”

  He flicked his reins, heading for home, and muttering to himself. “The gratitude of a former enemy should be worth a dozen tokens in striking a trade agreement.” Then the chief of the Hylar shook his head, sighing. More and more, he thought, he was beginning to think like Olim Goldbuckle.

  In a furniture shop in Theibardin, a burly shopkeeper discovered that a trade had been made. A good pair of calipers was missing from his shop, and in the tool’s place had been left a polished oval gemstone that tasted terrible and had a disconcerting habit of changing colors. With an oath, the shopkeeper flung the thing out of his shop. “I knew it,” he rumbled. “I knew that kender got away with something.”

  In the concourse off Fifth Road, a passing Klar farmer noticed the stone, picked it up, and dropped it into his belt-pouch. Later, in the worm warren, he studied it, holding it this way and that in the light, watching it turn from red to white to black, with myriad shades between.

  Had he been Daewar, he might have kept it as an oddity for display. But as a Klar, he found no use for it. After looking it over, he cast it aside.

  For a time, the gem lay half buried in a pile of crushed stone and slops, then was carted, rubble, slops, and all to the worm troughs, where the tractor worms were fed.

  The Stone of Threes of Kal-Thax, which was to have been the foundation of the Seventh Tower of High Sorcery, was never seen again. It was noted, though, that one particular lot of worm-web consigned to the weavers of spunstone had a tendency to change color at odd intervals.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Resident Texan Dan Parkinson has a mystique as a top-notch and top-selling Western writer, and is a prolific author of fantasy, science-fiction, and high-seas adventures as well. Firmly established as a TSR name, he has written his own science-fiction love story for the company, the acclaimed Starsong, as well as several novels and short stories in the realm of the DRAGONLANCE® saga. Dan also authored the first book in the Dwarven Nations Trilogy, the best-selling The Covenant of the Forge.

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