The History of Krynn: Vol IV

by Dragon Lance

  “Stop that!” a Theiwar snapped, delivering a well-placed kick at the man’s shin. The human howled, muttered something, and the kicker’s head became, momentarily, that of a rabbit. Another Theiwar reached up, grabbed the man’s beard, and bent him down to slap him across the cheek with a hard hand. “You heard us,” the dwarf said. “Stop that!”

  The man glared around at the dwarves, muttered something else, and seemed to disappear. His captors clung stubbornly to empty air and continued their struggling journey. “It’s all right,” one called. “He isn’t gone. He just invisibled himself. He’s done that several times.”

  Damon Omenborn hurried down the rampart to stop them before they reached the gate. “Where did you get this one?” he asked.

  “Slip caught him out in the breaks,” a captor said, indicating a long-armed young Theiwar who was clinging grimly to some unseen part of the unseen captive.

  “He’s still here,” Slip Codel assured the big Hylar. “Here, I’ll show you.” He reached up, groping in empty air, then with two fingers he pried open invisible eyelids. Between his fingers, a glaring eye appeared. “I don’t think magickers can invisible their eyes,” the young Theiwar explained. “If they’re open, you can always see them.”

  “Interesting.” Damon noted that by squinting he could vaguely see the outline of the wizard. The invisibility was, after all, only magic, and Damon had learned that the more obstinately he refused to accept magic, the less effective it seemed to be.

  “Who are you?” he asked the glaring eye between Slip Codel’s fingers.

  “None of your business,” an angry voice growled. “Delatas sepit mikti …”

  “Chapak!” Damon finished, pointing a strong finger at the eye.

  The unseen mage squealed, thrashed, and became abruptly visible, standing in the midst of a swarm of bees.

  “Hold him!” Damon said. “Ignore the bees; they aren’t real!”

  The Theiwar kept their grips on the struggling, howling man. “Wow!” Slip said. “Did you do that, Damon?”

  “No, he did. But he intended to do it to me.”

  “Ka – kapach!” the wizard stuttered, flailing against the bees swarming around him. The bees continued to swarm, stinging him mercilessly. “H-h-help!” he cried. “P-plea-please … help!”

  “Help how?” Damon asked casually.

  “S-s-say ‘Ka-k-k-ah-k-kapach!’”

  “Will you behave yourself?”

  “I w-w-will! I-I s-sw-swear! Ow!”

  “Kapach,” Damon said. Instantly, the bees were gone, though red welts were rising all over the man.

  “You should take up another trade,” Damon noted. “You aren’t very good at magic.” He pointed out across the dark Promontory with its myriad distant fires. “Who’s in charge out there?”

  “K-Kisti-Kistilan,” the wizard said. His stutter was becoming more pronounced.

  “Is he the one in the floating chair?”

  “Th-that’s-uh-that’s him.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He w-wants this p-puh-place,” the unhappy wizard said. His face was beginning to swell grotesquely from bee stings. “The r-r-rest of us w-uh-want the S-st-stone of Th-uh-thr-three-threes. Kis-Kistilan w-wants uh-Th-Thorbardin.”

  “None of you can have either one,” Damon assured him.

  “You c-can’t st-s-uh-s-stand against m-m-magic!” the man snapped. “You-y-you’re foo-f-fools to th-th-think you c-ca-c-uh-can.”

  “Are we?” The Hylar pointed at the man again. “Delatas sepit mikti …”

  “N-n-no!” the wizard shrieked.

  Damon grinned at him, then lowered his hand.

  “H-how … how did y-you, uh, l-l-learn that?” the man quavered, stammering uncontrollably.

  “I learned it from you just a moment ago. I have an excellent memory.”

  *

  With the coming of dark, most of the forces on the outer line had withdrawn to the nearer perimeter to rest and have their supper. The humans, as night-blind as any Daewar or Hylar, were not likely to move until morning. But here the dwarven commanders had failed to reckon on the wizards. An hour before first moonrise, trumpets sounded on the near slopes, and attack forces of human mercenaries charged the outer dwarven camps, following patches of eerie light that lit the ground ahead of them as moonlight through openings in the clouds might light a stormy night.

  Only intense discipline saved the Golden Hammer – farthest out on the main trail slope – from annihilation. Several hundred Sackmen warriors, guided by the skills of wizards, came out of darkness and fell upon the Daewar brigade with howls of triumph and the clashing of metal blades.

  Had the surprised Daewar been any other non-Hylar unit, they would have been massacred. But at the first hint of attack, even before Lodar Yellowkilt could call orders, the Daewar footmen had leapt into circle formation, forming a solid, double ring of steel shields and steel blades. Some of the Sackmen got through the first ring as dwarves fell before hand-darts and singing long swords, but none got through the second ring. For long minutes, the fighting was furious, steel ringing on steel, the war cries of the mercenaries a wild counterpoint to the chanting of the fighting dwarves as their blades snaked out from behind their shields and came back dripping red.

  The outer ring was breached once, and then again, and yet again, but each time, dwarves from the inner ring moved up to fill the gaps. Within the circle, dwarven slings hummed as slingers sailed round after round of iron shot into the press of humans. And at the center of his troops, Lodar Yellowkilt stood atop a water keg, deflecting arrows and darts with shield, helm, and bracelets as he squinted at the line of combat lit by magical glare. He saw an intense push by humans forming just beyond the south side of his ring and shouted, “Downtrail quadrant, break and charge!”

  Just as the humans at that point rushed the circle of dwarves, the circle bulged outward toward them, ranked shields parted suddenly, and a chanting flood of dwarves charged out, shields high, directly into the face of the attack. The two charges met and bored into each other, then the humans withdrew. Slingers pelted them from behind as they ran.

  In the broken gullies south of the main trail slope, the human surprise attack was not as successful. These were old hunting grounds of the wild Theiwar, and the Theiwar holding the sector now were well acquainted with them. It was here that a hundred or so invaders learned what some of their ancestors had learned in times past: the specialty of the Theiwar was ambush.

  The humans, roughly a hundred mercenaries and two or three wizards, charged into the breaks, aiming at the peaceful cook-fires just ahead. By the time they saw that the fires were unattended, it was too late to turn back. Slim Theiwar blades and dark-iron Theiwar hammers ran red with blood on that night, and very few of the attackers escaped.

  Daergar night-fighters, on their way back from harassing the human camps, were not as fortunate as the Theiwar. A blaze of eerie light caught most of them with their masks off and blinded them as two squadrons of invaders raced among them, slashing and cutting. The Daergar skirmishers left nearly forty dead on that bloody field – almost half their company.

  It was mixed infantry that stood off the mobs of humans who made it almost to the ramparts. Under direct command of Barek Stone, four companies of Thorbardin guards formed ranks below the sloping roads, and the humans who made it there, past several other dwarven units, were no match for them. The fighting lasted no more than minutes, and then the invaders turned and disappeared into sudden darkness.

  The surprise attacks had not reached Thorbardin, but, added to the fighting of the day before, they had taken their toll. Of twelve hundred dwarves who had formed the outer defense the previous morning, no more than a thousand remained. Willen Ironmaul heard the reports and called in the guard units to form an intense cordon on the main slopes, from the west rampart to the east one, and it was there, battered and bloodied, that the defenders waited for morning light.

  Chapter 19

/>   THE DAY OF DESTINY

  Dawn’s first banners, rising above the plains of southern Ergoth, revealed a grim panorama below Southgate of Thorbardin. Hundreds of morning fires wove layers of smoke above the lower slopes of Cloudseeker Peak, where thousands of human warriors massed, making ready for all-out assault on the dwarven fortress. No longer concentrated on the distant Promontory, the human hordes had moved forward through the night, gaining ground in skirmish after skirmish, until the open meadows were behind them and just ahead were the massive slopes of the fortress mountain.

  By first light, the human invaders prepared their attack, while barely a quarter mile ahead of them, and a thousand feet up, dwarves by the hundreds poured forth from the portal of Southgate to stream down the sloped ramparts and reinforce the defensive positions on the face of the mountain, desperately close to their final barricade – Southgate.

  Willen Ironmaul and the Council of Thanes had determined that Thorbardin must be defended from without for as long as possible. “Only if we hold the slopes,” Willen advised the council, “can we avoid a state of closed siege. If we have to, we will retreat within and close the gate. But when that is done, we can no longer fight. We will be trapped within our own fortress, and the realm beyond will be undefended. Reorx forbid, but if it comes to barricading ourselves in Thorbardin, Kal-Thax will be lost.”

  A closed siege, the thane leaders agreed, would be the end of the dwarven realm in the Kharolis mountains. The greatest strength of Thorbardin – its impenetrability – was at the same time its greatest weakness as a custodial fortress for the realm around it. There were only two practical entrances, Southgate and Northgate. If the gates were both closed, and no one could get in, then neither could anyone get out.

  Once Thorbardin was closed, the humans could mount siege on both gates indefinitely – and in the meantime they could loot, plunder, and occupy all the lands Thorbardin was built to protect. And the dwarven forces, within their subterranean stronghold, could do nothing about it. Without the presence of Thorbardin and its fighting forces, the lands of the Einar and the burgeoning settlements of the Neidar would be lost. Thorbardin itself might survive – for a time – but Kal-Thax would not. Thus it was decided that, though Northgate was now closed, Southgate would remain open at all costs as long as there were dwarves enough to defend it. Closing the great gate would be the final retreat and the last resort.

  By calling up all the reserves, Thorbardin’s outside forces could almost equal those massed out on the slope. But the talking drums said that more humans were crossing Ergoth now, drawn by news of war and dreams of plunder. Through border traders, the knights of Ergoth had sent warning. Something was happening within the human city of Xak Tsaroth. The overlords’ minions had withdrawn behind the walls, the city had been closed, and no news came from there. Now only the scattered outposts of the human knights stood between roving hordes and the road to the west, and the knights had their hands full defending their own lands.

  Effectively, the warning was that the dwarves were on their own now, and may the gods protect them.

  It was a grim and determined Damon Omenborn who stepped through the final gateway on this morning. He wore full field armor beneath a gray cloak, and in the crook of his arm he carried the red-crested helmet that had belonged to Mace Hammerstand. He carried both sword and hammer, and the shield slung behind his shoulder was emblazoned with the hammer-and-fist legend of the Roving Guard. Behind him, two hundred similarly armed and similarly grim young dwarves filed into view.

  Cable Graypath, First of the Ten, recognized the chief’s son and bowed slightly in recognition of the proud symbol he wore, then stepped aside. Beyond him, Willen Ironmaul turned, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of his son. “What is this?” he growled. “Damon, who appointed you captain of the Roving Guard?”

  “They did,” Damon said, returning his father’s frown with one just as strong and determined. “The survivors of Mace Hammerstand’s force. They came to me after nightfall and asked my pledge. I gave it. Mace was my friend.”

  “I see,” the chief of chiefs said. “Well, as leader of the Roving Guard, it is your right to choose your duty. Have you a choice?”

  “The wizards,” Damon replied without hesitation. “I have seen them, I have dealt with them, and I have taught the Roving Guard what I know. I seek leave to concentrate my forces on the magic-makers among our enemies.”

  “The wizard Kistilan?” Barek Stone asked.

  “He is my primary target,” Damon said.

  “The wizards hide behind their hordes,” Willen said, scowling. “How can you get to them?”

  “Let me try,” Damon urged. “No one else is better equipped to fight them. I have tasted their vile magic. I have even learned a little of it.”

  Willen sighed. There could be no argument on that score. His son was right. “But I had counted on having you here,” he said. “If the wizards get past us … if any of them should get inside the gate …”

  “Trust Gem Bluesleeve,” Damon said. “That wily Daewar has a plan for that.”

  “I know of his plan.” Willen shuddered. “I hope I never have to see it put to practice.” He gazed at his big son, then shrugged and clapped him on his metal-clad shoulder. “The members of the Roving Guard were within their rights to select you, Damon. And you are within your rights to name your own assignment. Very well, you are so ordered. Just …”

  When his father turned away without continuing, Damon asked, “Just what?”

  “Nothing,” Willen growled, not looking around. “Nothing more than I would ask of any warrior of Thorbardin. Take care of yourself … Damon Omenborn.”

  Damon saluted, the closed-fist salute of the Hylar, then turned and strapped Mace Hammerstand’s crested helm onto his head. With no further formalities, Damon marched away, down the eastern rampart, toward the old Theiwar trails. Grim and determined, his volunteers – for that was the nature of the Roving Guard, all were volunteers – marched at his back. To a dwarf, they were remembering Mace Hammerstand and the awful thing that had killed him – a thing brought forth upon Kal-Thax by the conniving and plotting of wizards.

  *

  Assisted by magic, human engineers had been at work in the forests flanking the eastern Promontory, and not siege engines rolled forward across the meadows – catapults, sling-rams, and caissons creeping along on wheels and runners in the shadows of tall, shielded towers which could each hold and protect a dozen ranks of archers and darters.

  The first such tower to come within range was cut to rubble by disks from the great discobels on the dwarves ramparts, but stones from catapults showered the discobels in return, smashing the frame of one of them so that it yawed, tipped, and fell crashing from the high rampart, tearing itself to pieces on the rockfall slope below The second discobel was withdrawn for repair, and dwarven slingers flanking the main guard towers concentrated their fire on the humans’ near engines, driving back their crews and footmen.

  One slung catapult was abandoned three hundred yards from the western rampart, and when human foot men from the near ranks ran out to retrieve it they were met by a company of the dwarven home guard fresh from the citadel of Gatekeep. Fierce, hand-to-hand fighting ensued, sweeping this way and that along the wide paved staging area. Human and dwarf warriors met and mingled, swords slashing, hammers flashing, shield ringing with the song of deadly conflict.

  Hand to hand and eye to belt buckle, the tall, savage people of the plains threw themselves upon the short stocky people of the mountains and met a grim, determined resistance as fierce as their own attack. Shield high and weapons whining, the dwarves drove into the human ranks like wedges of short demons, and many a human learned the truth of the legends – that inch for inch a dwarf was both heavier and stronger than a human and that dwarven steel was the finest in the world.

  In the thick of the melee, Theiwar workers made their way to the abandoned catapult, defended it with sledges swung by massive arms, and turn
ed it.

  Seeing what the Theiwar were doing, the home guard responded, gradually changing the pattern of the conflict from random melee to a purposeful herding of the humans. The guard spread into lines, swept forward along two fronts of the human assault, and, blow by blow, drove the tall people back, compacting them against their own kind. Wielding weapons and prybars furiously, the dozen Theiwar – they had numbered twenty when they first reached the catapult – lowered the engine’s elevating blocks and anchored its trailing runners, then shouted in unison, “Now!”

  As the home guards turned and raced away, the catapult was released, point-blank, directly into the crowded human defense. Its missile, a two-hundred-pound stone, carved a yard-wide path of death through the crowd, and the home guards turned again, rushed upon the survivors, and renewed their attack.

  Humans turned to flee, and the retreat became a rout until the pursuing dwarves were flanked by other units of the human army and cut down from both sides.

  Lodar Yellowkilt’s Golden Hammer charged into the thick of this new fight, a murderous, solid rank of bright shields, bright cloaks, and bright blades, scattering humans as it went.

  As though the widening conflict at the western staging flat were a signal, the human army launched an all-out attack all along the dwarven defensive front. For long minutes the dwarven lines held, meeting every thrust with good dwarven steel. But as each human fell, a dozen more swarmed in to take his place, and the dwarves began to retreat, step by step, crouching and shielding, slashing and pounding as they worked their way backward up the narrowing stage-ways toward the ramparts themselves.

  One large group of barbarians, breaking away from the rest, launched a direct attack between the ramparts. Using picks, throw-hooks, and climbing lines they headed directly for the gateway ledge two hundred feet above. Barek Stone watched them come, swarming up the steep slope, and waited until most of them were committed, clinging to their lines, before responding. At his order, a hinged shelf atop the ledge wall tipped upward, dwarves with prybars behind it, and dozens of open casks filled with burning lamp oil cascaded down on the climbers. Walls of fire blazed up from the sedge and brush below, and the screaming humans disappeared into the fire.