War of the Twins: Legends, Volume Two (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  “Reghar Fireforge, of the hill dwarves, and party.”

  The herald pronounced the name, stamping the butt end of his ceremonial spear upon the hard, granite floor. The hill dwarves entered, walking proudly up to the throne where Duncan sat in what was now called the Hall of Thanes in the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Behind him, in shorter chairs that had been hastily dragged in for the occasion, sat the six representatives of the other clans to act as witnesses for their thanes. They were witnesses only, there to report back to their thanes what had been said and done. Since it was war time, all authority rested with Duncan. (At least as much of it as he could claim.)

  The witnesses were, in fact, nothing more than captains of their respective divisions. Though supposedly a single unit made up collectively of all the dwarves from each clan, the army was, nonetheless, merely a collection of clans gathered together. Each clan provided its own units with its own leaders; each clan lived separate and apart from the others. Fights among the clans were not uncommon—there were blood feuds that went back for generations. Duncan had tried his best to keep a tight lid on these boiling cauldrons, but—every now and then—the pressure built too high and the lid blew off.

  Now, however, facing a common foe, the clans were united. Even the Dewar representative, a dirty-faced, ragged captain named Argat who wore his beard braided in knots in a barbaric fashion and who amused himself during the proceedings by skillfully tossing a knife into the air and catching it as it descended, listened to the proceedings with less than his usual air of sneering contempt.

  There was, in addition, the captain of a squadron of gully dwarves. Known as the Highgug, he was there by Duncan’s courtesy only. The word “gug” meaning “private” in gully dwarf language, this dwarf was therefore nothing more than a “high private,” a rank considered laughable in the rest of the army. It was an outstanding honor among gully dwarves, however, and the Highgug was held in awe by most of his troops. Duncan, always politic, was unfailingly polite to the Highgug and had, therefore, won his undying loyalty. Although there were many who thought this might have been more of a hindrance than a help, Duncan replied that you never knew when such things could come in handy.

  And so the Highgug was here as well, though few saw him. He had been given a chair in an obscure corner and told to sit still and keep quiet, instructions he followed to the letter. In fact, they had to return to remove him two days later.

  “Dwarves is dwarves,” was an old saying common to the populace of the rest of Krynn when referring to the differences between the hill dwarves and the mountain dwarves.

  But there were differences—vast differences, to the dwarvish mind, though these might not have been readily apparent to any outside observer. Oddly enough, and neither the elves nor the dwarves would admit it, the hill dwarves had left the ancient kingdom of Thorbardin for many of the same reasons that the Qualinesti elves left the traditional homeland of Silvanesti.

  The dwarves of Thorbardin lived rigid, highly structured lives. Everyone knew his or her place within his or her own clan. Marriage between clans was unheard of; loyalty to the clan being the binding force of every dwarf’s life. Contact with the outside world was shunned—the very worst punishment that could be inflicted upon a dwarf was exile; even execution was considered more merciful. The dwarf’s idea of an idyllic life was to be born, grow up, and die without ever sticking one’s nose outside the gates of Thorbardin.

  Unfortunately, this was—or at least had been in the past—a dream only. Constantly called to war to defend their holdings, the dwarves were forced to mix with the outside world. And—if there were no wars—there were always those who sought the dwarven skill in building and who were willing to pay vast sums to acquire it. The beautiful city of Palanthas had been lovingly constructed by a veritable army of dwarves, as had many of the other cities in Krynn. Thus a race of well-traveled, free-spirited, independent dwarves came about. They talked of intermarriage between the clans, they spoke matter-of-factly about trade with humans and elves. They actually expressed a desire to live in the open air. And—most heinous of all—they expressed the belief that other things in life might hold more importance than the crafting of stone.

  This, of course, was seen by the more rigid dwarves as a direct threat to dwarvish society itself, so, inevitably, the split occurred. The independent dwarves left their home beneath the mountain in Thorbardin. The parting did not occur peacefully. There were harsh words on both sides. Blood feuds started then that would last for hundreds of years. Those who left took to the hills where, if life wasn’t all they had hoped for, at least it was free—they could marry whom they chose, come and go as they chose, earn their own money. The dwarves left behind simply closed ranks and became even more rigid, if that were possible.

  The two dwarves facing each other now were thinking of this, as they sized each other up. They were also thinking, perhaps, that this was a historic moment—the first time both sides had met in centuries.

  Reghar Fireforge was the elder of the two, a top-ranking member of the strongest clan of hill dwarves. Though nearing his two-hundredth Day of Life Gift, the old dwarf was hale and hearty still. He came of a long-lived clan. The same could not be said of his sons, however. Their mother had died of a weak heart and the same malady seemed to run in the family. Reghar had lived to bury his eldest son and, already, he could see some of the same symptoms of an early death in his next oldest—a young man of seventy-five, just recently married.

  Dressed in furs and animal skins, looking as barbaric (if cleaner) than the Dewar, Reghar stood with his feet wide apart, staring at Duncan, his rock-hard eyes glittering from beneath brows so thick many wondered how the old dwarf could see at all. His hair was iron gray, so was his beard, and he wore it plaited and combed and tucked into his belt in hill-dwarf fashion. Flanked by an escort of hill dwarves—all dressed much the same—the old dwarf was an impressive sight.

  King Duncan returned Reghar’s gaze without faltering—this staring-down contest was an ancient dwarvish practice and, if the parties were particularly stubborn, had been known to result in both dwarves keeling over from exhaustion unless interrupted by some neutral third party. Duncan, as he regarded Reghar grimly, began to stroke his own curled and silky beard that flowed freely over his broad stomach. It was a sign of contempt, and Reghar, noticing it without admitting that he noticed it, flushed in anger.

  The six clan members sat stoically in their chairs, prepared for a long sitting. Reghar’s escort spread their feet and fixed their eyes on nothing. The Dewar continued to toss his knife in the air—much to everyone’s annoyance. The Highgug sat in his corner, forgotten except for the redolent odor of gully dwarf that pervaded the chill room. It seemed likely, from the look of things, that Pax Tharkas would crumble with age around their heads before anyone spoke. Finally, with a sigh, Kharas stepped in between Reghar and Duncan. Their line of vision broken, each party could drop his gaze without losing dignity.

  Bowing to his king, Kharas turned and bowed to Reghar with profound respect. Then he retreated. Both sides were now free to talk on an equal basis, though each side privately had its own ideas about how equal that might be.

  “I have granted you audience,” Duncan stated, starting matters off with formal politeness that, among dwarves, never lasted long, “Reghar Fireforge, in order to hear what brings our kinsmen on a journey to a realm they chose to leave long ago.”

  “A good day it was for us when we shook the dust of the moldy old tomb from our feet,” Reghar growled, “to live in the open like honest men instead of skulking beneath the rock like lizards.”

  Reghar patted his plaited beard, Duncan stroked his. Both stared at each other. Reghar’s escort wagged their heads, thinking their chieftain had come off better in the first verbal contest.

  “Then why is it that the honest men have returned to the moldy old tomb, except that they come as grave robbers?” Duncan snapped, leaning back with an air of self-satisfaction.

&n
bsp; There was a murmur of appreciation from the six mountain dwarves, who clearly thought their thane had scored a point.

  Reghar flushed. “Is the man who takes back what was stolen from him first a thief?” he demanded.

  “I fail to understand the point of that question,” Duncan said smoothly, “since you have nothing of value anyone would want to steal. It is said even the kender avoid your land.”

  There was appreciative laughter from the mountain dwarves, while the hill dwarves literally shook with rage—that being a mortal insult. Kharas sighed.

  “I’ll tell you about stealing!” Reghar snarled, his beard quivering with anger. “Contracts—that’s what you’ve stolen! Underbidding us, working at a loss to take the bread from our mouths! And there’ve been raids into our lands—stealing our grain and cattle! We’ve heard the stories of the wealth you’ve amassed and we’ve come to claim what is rightfully ours! No more, no less!”

  “Lies!” roared Duncan, leaping to his feet in a fury. “All lies! What wealth lies below the mountain we’ve worked for, with honest sweat! And here you come back, like spendthrift children, whining that your bellies are empty after wasting the days carousing when you should have been working!” He made an insulting gesture. “You even look like beggars!”

  “Beggars, is it?” Reghar roared in his turn, his face turning a deep shade of purple. “No, by Reorx’s beard! If I was starving and you handed me a crust of bread, I’d spit on your shoes! Deny that you’re fortifying this place, practically on our borders! Deny that you’ve roused the elves against us, causing them to cut off their trade! Beggars! No! By Reorx’s beard and his forge and his hammer, we’ll come back, but it’ll be as conquerors! We’ll have what is rightfully ours and teach you a lesson to boot!”

  “You’ll come, you sniveling cowards”—Duncan sneered—“hiding behind the skirts of a black-robed wizard and the bright shields of human warriors, greedy for spoils! They’ll stab you in the back and then rob your corpses!”

  “Who should know better about robbing corpses!” Reghar shouted. “You’ve been robbing ours for years!”

  The six clan members sprang out of their chairs, and Reghar’s escort jumped forward. The Dewar’s high-pitched laughter rose above the thundering shouts and threats. The Highgug crouched in his corner, his mouth wide open.

  The war might have started then and there had not Kharas run between the two sides, his tall figure towering over everyone. Pushing and shoving, he forced both sides to back off. Still, even after the two were separated, there was the shout of derision, the occasional insult hurled. But—at a stern glance from Kharas—these soon ceased and all fell into a sullen, surly silence.

  Kharas spoke, his deep voice gruff and filled with sadness. “Long ago, I prayed the god to grant me the strength to fight injustice and evil in the world. Reorx answered my prayer by granting me leave to use his forge, and there, on the forge of the god himself, I made this hammer. It has shone in battle since fighting the evil things of this world and protecting my homeland, the homeland of my people. Now, you, my king, would ask of me that I go to war against my kinsmen? And you, my kinsmen, would threaten to bring war to our land? Is this where your words are leading you—that I should use this hammer against my own blood?”

  Neither side spoke. Both glowered at each other from beneath tangled brows, both seemed almost half-ashamed. Kharas’s heartfelt speech touched many. Only two heard it unmoved. Both were old men, both had long ago lost any illusions about the world, both knew this rift had grown too wide to be bridged by words. But the gesture had to be made.

  “Here is my offer, Duncan, King of Thorbardin,” Reghar said, breathing heavily. “Withdraw your men from this fortress. Give Pax Tharkas and the lands that surround it to us and our human allies. Give us one-half of the treasure beneath the mountain—the half that is rightfully ours—and allow those of us who might choose to do so to return to the safety of the mountain if the evil grows in this land. Persuade the elves to lift their trade barriers, and split all contracts for masonry work fifty-fifty.

  “In return, we will farm the land around Thorbardin and trade our crops to you for less than it’s costing you to grow them underground. We’ll help protect your borders and the mountain itself, if need arises.”

  Kharas gave his lord a pleading look, begging him to consider—or at least negotiate. But Duncan was beyond reasoning, it seemed.

  “Get out!” he snarled. “Return to your black-robed wizard! Return to your human friends! Let us see if your wizard is powerful enough to blow down the walls of this fortress, or uproot the stones of our mountain. Let us see how long your human friends remain friends when the winter winds swirl about the campfires and their blood drips on the snow!”

  Reghar gave Duncan a final look, filled with such enmity and hatred it might well have been a blow. Then, turning on his heel, he motioned to his followers. They stalked out of the Hall of Thanes and out of Pax Tharkas.

  Word spread quickly. By the time the hill dwarves were ready to leave, the battlements were lined with mountain dwarves, shouting and hooting derisively. Reghar and his party rode off, their faces stern and grim, never once looking back.

  Kharas, meanwhile, stood in the Hall of Thanes, alone with his king (and the forgotten Highgug). The six witnesses had all returned to their clans, spreading the news. Kegs of ale and the potent drink known as dwarf spirits were broached that night in celebration. Already, the sounds of singing and raucous laughter could be heard echoing through the great stone monument to peace.

  “What would it have hurt to negotiate, Thane?” Kharas asked, his voice heavy with sorrow.

  Duncan, his sudden anger apparently vanished, looked at the taller dwarf and shook his head, his graying beard brushing against his robes of state. He was well within his rights to refuse to answer such an impertinent question. Indeed, no one but Kharas would have had the courage to question Duncan’s decision at all.

  “Kharas,” Duncan said, putting his hand on his friend’s arm affectionately, “tell me—is there treasure beneath the mountain? Have we robbed our kinsmen? Do we raid their lands, or the lands of the humans, for that matter? Are their accusations just?”

  “No,” Kharas answered, his eyes meeting those of his sovereign steadily.

  Duncan sighed. “You have seen the harvest. You know that what little money remains in the treasury we will spend to lay in what we can for this winter.”

  “Tell them this!” Kharas said earnestly. “Tell them the truth! They are not monsters! They are our kinsmen, they will understand—”

  Duncan smiled sadly, wearily. “No, they are not monsters. But, what is worse, they have become like children.” He shrugged. “Oh, we could tell them the truth—show them even. But they would not believe us. They would not believe their own eyes. Why? Because they want to believe otherwise!”

  Kharas frowned, but Duncan continued patiently. “They want to believe, my friend. More than that, they have to believe. It is their only hope for survival. They have nothing, nothing except that hope. And so they are willing to fight for it. I understand them.” The old king’s eyes dimmed for a moment, and Kharas—staring at him in amazement—realized then that his anger had been all feigned, all show.

  “Now they can return to their wives and their hungry children and they can say, ‘We will fight the usurpers! When we win, you will have full bellies again.’ And that will help them forget their hunger, for a while.”

  Kharas’s face twisted in anguish. “But to go this far! Surely, we can share what little—”

  “My friend,” Duncan said softly, “by Reorx’s Hammer, I swear this—if I agree to their terms, we would all perish. Our race would cease to exist.”

  Kharas stared at him. “As bad as that?” he asked.

  Duncan nodded. “Aye, as bad as that. Few only know this—the leaders of the clans, and now you. And I swear you to secrecy. The harvest was disastrous. Our coffers are nearly empty, and now we must hoard what w
e can to pay for this war. Even for our own people, we will be forced to ration food this winter. With what we have, we calculate that we can make it—barely. Add hundreds of more mouths—” He shook his head.

  Kharas stood pondering, then he lifted his head, his dark eyes flashing. “If that is true, then so be it!” he said sternly. “Better we all starve to death, than die fighting each other!”

  “Noble words, my friend,” Duncan answered. The beating of drums thrummed through the room and deep voices raised in stirring war chants, older than the rocks of Pax Tharkas, older—perhaps—than the bones of the world itself. “You can’t eat noble words, though, Kharas. You can’t drink them or wrap them around your feet or burn them in your firepit or give them to children crying in hunger.”

  “What about the children who will cry when their father leaves, never to return?” Kharas asked sternly.

  Duncan raised an eyebrow. “They will cry for a month,” he said simply, “then they will eat his share of the food. And wouldn’t he want it that way?”

  With that, he turned and left the Hall of Thanes, heading for the battlements once more.

  As Duncan counseled Kharas in the Hall of Thanes, Reghar Fireforge and his party were guiding their short-statured, shaggy hill ponies out of the fortress of Pax Tharkas, the hoots and laughter of their kinsmen ringing in their ears.

  Reghar did not speak a word for long hours, until they were well out of sight of the huge double towers of the fortress. Then, when they came to a crossing in the road, the old dwarf reined in his horse.

  Turning to the youngest member of the party, he said in a grim, emotionless voice, “Continue north, Darren Ironfist.” The old dwarf drew forth a battered, leather pouch. Reaching inside, he pulled out his last gold piece. For a long moment he stood staring at it, then he pressed it into the hands of the dwarf. “Here. Buy passage across the New Sea. Find this Fistandantilus and tell him … tell him—”