by Dragon Lance
Weakness flowed over him like a cold stream, and he fought it valiantly. He tried to count the moons rising in the sky, but they spun and danced around, and he lost track. He heard a voice and didn’t know whether it was his own or someone else’s. “Reorx give me strength,” he whispered. “Reorx, don’t let me turn loose yet. Everbardin can wait … just a little longer.”
Someone was kneeling beside him. Several someones, and others around them, dark, sturdy, bearded forms in the moonlight. Someone was calling his name, and again he squeezed the stump of his arm until the pain cleared his eyes. Slowly, he recognized some of them. Mica Silvershield was there, and Brune Tamal, and … and many others, crowding around. And the one kneeling beside him, cradling his head on an arm that was like warm steel, was Cale Greeneye.
“Cale …” Mace tried to speak, then erupted with coughing spasms that soaked him with his own blood. When the convulsions had passed, he tried again. “Cale, it was the beast. It found us … at the citadel. We … the hundred … they are all dead.”
“Be quiet, Mace,” Cale soothed him. “We will find the thing. I promise you.”
“Cale, we couldn’t hurt it. Our blades bounced away. Until … Cale, it can be hurt. Its neck. I cut it on the neck. Just … a scratch, but it was a wound. Its neck, Cale. There, it can be hurt.”
“I hear you, Mace.” The Neidar’s voice shook, and in the moonlight there was a tear on his cheek. “I will remember.”
“Cale …”
“Yes, Mace.”
“Cale, my wife, and our children …”
“They will be seen to,” the Neidar promised.
“And Cale, tell Damon …”
“What, Mace?”
“Tell him … tell him I have been proud to be his friend.”
The last was a faint whisper, barely heard. Then the captain of Roving Guard let out a final, rasping breath, and his head rolled to the side. He was dead.
Cale let him down gently on the bloody rock and stood. “Let the drums speak,” he said. “Mace Hammerstand is dead. A hundred of the best have died, and the beast still lives.”
Around him a dozen signalers unslung their drums and began the song that was – in the way of the dwarves – both a message and a lament, a dirge for the respected dead.
“Everbardin,” Cale whispered, “take this one … and the others … home.”
*
First dawn lay on the peaks when the relayed drum-calls reached Damon Omenborn at the edge of the wilderness, a hundred miles southwest of the old citadel on Sky’s End.
Returning from Sheercliff toward Thorbardin had been a long, slow journey for the little party. Both Damon and Tag Salan knew that they were being followed, and Tag had seen their pursuer. It was the red-strap wizard from the cliffs, the one who called himself Megistal. He had a horse – one of their own lost animals, Tag thought – and was dogging their trail, pausing now and then to make shimmering rings appear in thin air – rings the wizard stared into as though searching.
Backtracking, Tag had seen him and watched him for a while, ducking out of sight each time the man made one of his spells. Somehow, he guessed with Theiwar intuition, the wizard would be able to see them and find them if he could once discover just where they were. So they made sure that he could not see them. They zigzagged, doubled back, and kept to cover. The Einar girl, Willow Summercloud, became exasperated with them, but found that it was no use to argue.
It was Damon’s intention to mislead the man enough so that when they came into settled lands he would know only their general direction of travel, not exactly where they were. Damon had felt the enormous power of the man’s magic and had no wish to be caught in the open by some sorcerous spell whose source he could not even see, much less fight.
Thus, as they broke night camp in a place of thickets, within sight of Einar fields, the wizard was some distance south of them, following a false trail that might take him all day to sort out. In the distance to the east, beyond the settled lands, rose the massive bulks of Sky’s End, Cloudseeker, and the Thunder Peaks. With luck, they could be safely within Thorbardin – with the color-shifting stone that the wizards had valued so much – before the mage could do anything about them.
And it was then, just at dawn, when the drum-calls came on the wind. Damon stood, cocking his head to listen, and his eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” Willow demanded, closing a pack. “Has something happened?”
“Hush!” Damon snapped, still listening. Tag Salan, a few yards away, was listening, too, but seemed puzzled. He understood a little of the drum-speak, as most Thorbardin dwarves had learned to, but only a little. There was far more in the songs of the drums, subtleties of tone and rhythm, things that only a Hylar could truly decipher.
After a moment, Damon turned and looked at the others. “The fog beast has been at Sky’s End,” he said. “There were guards there, and it attacked them.”
Tag felt a chill go up his spine. “Guards? Who?”
“The Roving Guard, Tag.” Damon lowered his eyes. “Mace Hammerstand, and a hundred. They are all dead. The thing killed them.”
Tag stared at him with stricken eyes. “Mace … my captain, dead?”
Damon nodded. “All dead,” he said. “The thing battered down the gate of the old tunnel, but they don’t know where it is now. Runners with torches went as far as the second barrier and found it still standing.”
“Damon, that thing …” Tag started, then took a deep breath to control the anger rising within him. “The wizards on the cliff. They did something. They woke it up, and now it is loose.”
“Yes. The wizards.” Damon raised his eyes, and Willow Summercloud gasped at the sight of his face. Even Tag Salan stared, startled. In the big Hylar’s narrowed eyes blazed an anger that was as hot as forge-fires and as cold as ice. In ninety years, no one had ever seen Damon Omenborn angry. It had seemed as though the big, affable Hylar simply did not have the cold steel of fury within him. But now a palpable force as strong as winter winds seemed to blaze from his eyes. Willow backed away, clutching her axe, her eyes wide. Tag Salan felt as though he were staring into pure wrath.
“Come on,” Damon said softly. “No more games with that red-strap. Let him just hope he does not find us before we get home.” He lifted the flap of his belt-pouch, took out the Stone of Threes, and gazed at it icily. “This is important to the mages, is it? Well, that’s just fine. Because this is something that they shall never have as long as I am alive.”
“There are other wizards, Damon,” Tag said. “If it’s that important, they will come searching for it. They will come to Thorbardin.”
“Then let them come,” Damon said. “Let them see our gates … once, before they die.”
Willow was still gaping at him. Along the way, she had entered a swampy thicket to gather berries, and now mud and stain was smeared across her face, adding to the soot and ash that had been there since the first time they had seen her. “You … you really hate the humans that much?”
“Humans?” He shook his head. “I have nothing against humans, girl. Not all of them, anyway. But I have a score to settle with those who are so … so corrupt that they practice magic.”
In a nearby thicket, something moved, and a strong voice said, “By that speech, dwarf, you have saved yourself an arrow through the heart.”
They spun around, weapons at hand, as a tall fierce-looking man stepped from cover. An arrow was notched in the bow he carried, but it was lowered. “My name is Quist Redfeather,” he said. “And I have a score to settle, too. Especially with that magic-user that you have been leading in circles.”
*
High overhead, a bird wheeled in the morning sunlight – a bird far larger than any who happened to see it from the ground might guess.
Cawe had seen the gathering of wizards in the cove among the southern peaks and wanted no part of them. They were nowhere near Sheercliff, nowhere near the raptor aviaries high in the Anviltops, and they we
re none of his business. Still, the little creature on his back insisted on a further look around, and now she had spotted the three dwarves from Sheercliff far below. In high-pitched birdsong, she begged and pleaded for Cawe to take her down to them so that she could tell them about the mages gathering in the mountains.
Finally, Cawe relented. No, he would not take her to them. There was too much settlement where they were, too much chance of being seen and challenged by creatures of their kind. Creatures of Cawe’s kind had learned, a long time ago, that the best way for raptors to deal with people of any kind was to simply avoid them. People did not understand giant birds, and most encounters led only to trouble.
Ahead, though, where a great mountain rose against the bright sky, were vast, high areas where no settlements were visible. Huge hawk-eyes roved the landscape there. High on the shoulder of the centermost of the great peaks, a deep, walled valley beckoned – a place where even a raptor might land unnoticed. Cawe set his wings and headed for a secluded landing. He would let the kender off there, and she could find her own way to the dwarves.
The raptor realized that he might never see the little creature again. It was the way of kender, to come and go as they pleased. In many ways, it would be a relief if this kender never returned to the Anviltops. She was often a nuisance.
And yet, the great creature – whose kind were called peak-masters by those who knew of them – admitted to himself that he would probably miss Shillitec Medina Quickfoot when she was gone. The sedate, reclusive life of the raptor – after having associated with a kender for a time – was likely to be a bit dull.
Chapter 12
TINKER’S BLAST
Shaft Redstone, delvemaster of all the Daewar, and Cambit Steelsheath, Thorbardin’s warden of ways, had burned many a candle in their search for a way to obliterate the old Daewar tunnel through Sky’s End but had been unable to come up with any plan that would require less than five years of labor. Surprisingly enough, it was the lorekeeper, Quill Runebrand, who suggested the idea that the regent, Willen Ironmaul, decided to try.
The keeper of scrolls had invited himself to supper at the regent’s quarters on the pretext of wanting to enscroll Willen Ironmaul’s proclamations so that they could be copied and posted in each city and marketplace. Actually, his visit was more because of Tera Sharn than because of Willen Ironmaul. The regent’s wife – Damon Omenborn’s mother – was a lovely, gracious, and wise person, always full of insight about subjects that sometimes puzzled Quill, and in addition she was the daughter of the almost legendary Colin Stonetooth, first chieftain of the Hylar. Much of the lore that Quill had compiled about the origins of his own ancestral people came from chats with Tera Sharn. And, even better than all that, Tera Sharn was an excellent cook.
Now, as Quill sat with Willen Ironmaul and Cable Graypath, First of the Ten, at the plank table in the new regent’s quarters in Hybardin, he gazed around the room thoughtfully. Among most of the other races of Krynn, Quill assumed, a great chieftain would live in lavish style. In the human city of Xak Tsaroth, it was said, the palace of the High Overlord contained a hundred separate rooms, most of them as big as assembly halls. Trading elves had spoken of the tall, beautiful towers of far-off Silvanesti. Even among goblins, he had heard, wherever a settlement of filthy hovels and noxious caves developed, the highest ranking goblin usually claimed a hovel or cave several times as large as any others around it.
But it had never been so with the dwarves, and the Hylar were no exception. Willen Ironmaul was the revered chieftain of the Hylar, and now he was also the regent of all of Thorbardin. But the living quarters that he and Tera Sharn occupied consisted of four simple rooms located in a high delving within the Life Tree stalactite. The partitions were of simple stone-block construction, and the crossed runes of Hylar and leader, carved into the wood of the outer door, was the only indication that anyone important lived here. In size and construction the home of the chieftain was much the same as any other home in Hybardin. Stone ceilings were whitewashed, as were most Hylar ceilings, though Theiwar ceilings tended to be gray or brown, and Daewar ceilings were rampant with bright colors and intricate designs. The walls were hung with subtle, elegant tapestries of Tera Sharn’s selection, and the furniture was simple, tasteful, and sturdy. In addition, each room had lens-and-mirror murals to carry light from the sun-tunnels.
In all, it was a typical Hylar dwelling and – except for varying tastes in ornamentation, coloration, and placement of things – typical of most dwarven quarters in most of the dwarven cities that Quill had seen.
What was not typical was the aroma that floated in from the next room, where Tera Sharn had supper cooking over a grate of glowing coals. Quill’s nostrils twitched with pleasure. The aroma was rich and subtle, laced lightly with a blend of the fine spices the Klar produced in the farm warrens and those traded from human gatherers in the realm of the orders of Ergoth.
“If ever I marry,” Quill commented, “I shall choose a wife who can cook as well as the lady Tera … if in fact there are any others who can.” He breathed the tantalizing aroma, and his nose wrinkled as he thought of other, far less pleasant things he had smelled recently.
Then Tera came through the archway, carrying a copper tray laden with her cuisine, and Quill’s eyes widened. “Eggs?” he gulped. “Are those eggs?”
“Of course they are eggs.” Tera smiled at the keeper of scrolls. “Freshly harvested from the pigeon-roosts above the Valley of the Thanes. Some of the women gather them there and trade them at the Daewar market.”
Willen glanced at the lorekeeper. “You seem surprised, Quill. Don’t you eat eggs?”
“Of course I do.” Quill nodded, feeling foolish. “I … forgive my absentmindedness, Lady Tera. I was thinking of eggs when you brought those in, but in quite another context.”
“What context is that?” Willen asked.
“I was thinking about that old tinker with his hideous mixtures. The one who keeps trying to find fuel for tin forges and instead belabors the ethers with the smell of rotten eggs.”
“Pack Lodestone,” Cable Graypath reminded him. “I won’t forget that smell soon either.”
“Or the noise.” Quill grinned. “Just a few little buckets of … of ‘stuff,’ and he shook the entire north face of Cloudseeker.”
“That’s it!” Willen Ironmaul rumbled. “By Reorx, I believe that is it!”
“What is, dear?” Tera asked.
“The old Daewar tunnel,” Willen said. “Rust! I should have thought of it myself!”
“Thought of what?” Quill stared at his leader.
“That’s the problem with being chief of chiefs,” Willen proclaimed. “When a person has too many things on his mind, he can’t think through any of them. Wizards running loose in our mountains. And some thing out there killing people for the sheer joy of killing. …” He glanced at Cable. “Have we heard anything yet from Cale or the Roving Guard?”
“Nothing yet.” The First of the Ten shook his head.
“And Damon’s out there somewhere, with no regard for how worried his mother is. …”
“I’m not really worried about Damon, dear,” Tera reassured him. “After all, he is his father’s son. He can take care of himself.”
“You’re worried half-sick!” Willen snapped.
“Well,” Tera said, “someone here is, certainly.”
“… and trying to get Northgate usable, and then there is Gem Bluesleeve’s idea about the left side of the Shaft of Reorx …”
“What idea?”
“Never mind. I’m still thinking about it. Anyway, with all this on my mind, I’ve also been worrying about the old Daewar tunnel. Gran Stonemill is right, you know. It is a weakness in our defenses. Magic might penetrate it. But I couldn’t come up with any idea what to do about it until just now when Quill suggested the answer.”
“What answer?” Quill asked, mystified.
“It just might work,” Willen muttered to himself. “Cabl
e, get a message to Olim Goldbuckle. Tell him to round up his ancient tinker. … What’s his name?”
“Pack Lodestone?”
“Yes, him. Tell him to bring Pack Lodestone and a team of delvers and meet me at Northgate. Oh, and tell him to bring as many buckets of that’stuff the oldster plays with as can be had. We’ll need a lot of it. Tell him to meet me right away.”
“Aye.” The First of the Ten was on his feet, looking puzzled but ready to obey. Willen pushed back his stool and stood, glancing around for his helmet, shield, and hammer.
“Willen!” Tera snapped. “Whatever it is, you can at least finish your dinner!”
“Oh. Yes.” The chief of chiefs sat again. “I suppose you’re right. Quill, pass the eggs.” To Cable, he said, “And have horses ready below Northgate, with carts and supply packs. We have a long way to go.”
“Where?” Quill wondered,
“To Sky’s End!” Willen snapped. “To the old tunnel! What do you think I’ve been talking about?”
“I’m not sure I have any real idea,” Quill admitted.
“Willen, you can’t go!” Tera said sternly. “You’re regent of Thorbardin now. You can’t go off on missions outside. You’re needed here.”
“Oh, rust!” Willen subsided, realizing that she was right. “Life was much simpler when I was just a soldier,” he muttered, “even when I was an ordinary chief. And Olim can’t go, either, because he’s meeting with the wardens. Well …” He turned to gaze at Quill Runebrand. “Since it was your idea, Quill, I appoint you chief of the project. You’ll be in charge; I suggest you leave immediately. It’s more than fifty miles from Northgate to the old citadel, and there’s no time to lose.”
Quill stared at his leader, wide-eyed. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Just what you suggested! Go to the citadel and seal that tunnel so that not even mages can get in. Make it a tunnel that never was. Obliterate it.”
“But I don’t know …”
