by Dragon Lance
“Maybe the gods favored Derkin, as they say, or maybe that elf, Despaxas, had something to do with it. In those days he often had that shadow thing with him – Zephyr – and maybe the creature helped somehow. But not an alarm was sounded. Even when those slaves climbed past the shaft mines, no guard saw or heard them.
“I asked Derkin where we were going next, and he just said, ‘Past Tharkas, into the wilderness. I have an army to build. But you aren’t going on this journey, human. It will be no place for your kind. Here is where we part.’
“Then he stopped suddenly and turned, and right behind him that Zephyr thing appeared in the air, just sort of floating, like a fish in water. It seemed to stare at Derkin, and he stared back. Then it was gone, and Derkin swore it had spoken to him. He said it told him to pay attention to his dreams, for in sleep he would learn the ways of the Calnar. I asked him who the Calnar were, and he said they were the people before the Hylar.
“The dwarves and I parted there … for a time. I made it out of those mountains, then found a horse and got back to my people. We were in an all-out war with the emperor’s invaders by then. Within a year I was chief of my tribe, though it was no happy ascension. I became chief because our old chief, Plume Plainswind, died with a Caergothian spear through his heart.
“The war stretched from months into years. We kept thinking it must end soon, and some of the Wildrunner elves we shared fires with thought so, too. But there were others whose predictions proved better than ours. Among the elves, they spoke of a leader called Kith-Kanan. And they spoke of Despaxas sometimes. They said Despaxas had sent Zephyr to look into the heart of the emperor’s general, Giarna, across battle lines. They said the soul reader found neither weariness nor any regard for the cost in lives and suffering. And Despaxas had gone farther than that, they said. Somehow the elven mage had reached across half a continent to look into the heart of the emperor himself. He said it was like looking into a black pit that reeked of ambition and the need for power.
“And there was another story, among the elves. They said Despaxas believed that the emperor, Quivalin Soth, had the power to be two people – though the second of the two had no soul at all.
“The elves prophesied that Ullves’s War would never end until the emperor controlled all of Ansalon … or until the emperor was dead.
“And the war did go on … and on and on. For a time, we heard strange tales of wild dwarves coming down from the mountains to make lightning raids along the empire’s supply lines. They said the dwarves would strike caravans, take what they wanted, and disappear to the south. They took weapons, horses, food supplies … all kinds of things.
“There were rumors everywhere, that Thorbardin would open its gates and the dwarves would march into battle. But then the tales of dwarven raiders died down, and seasons passed without any word of them. It was as though all the dwarves in the Kharolis mountains had simply disappeared. Most who thought about them at all assumed that the wild dwarves had joined their mountain brothers in that fabled fortress of theirs, and simply shut themselves off from the world.
“I never really believed that, myself. I thought often of Derkin, and what he had said when we parted. He had an army to build, he said. And there was something in the way he said it. … I always had a hunch that I’d see him again one day. There was something about Derkin, something in his eyes, in the way he stood and the way he spoke. I had a feeling even then that the emperor’s warlords had not heard the last of Derkin.”
Part II
MASTER OF THE CHOSEN
Century of Rain
Decade of Cherry,
Spring, Year of Tin
Chapter 8
OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
Guards at a winter outpost high on the west face of Sky’s End Mountain were the first to spot the approach of the strangers. Up there, where the cold season’s snowpack still gave teeth to the freshening winds, frost-bearded young volunteers kept watch in relays. For more than a century, the wardens of the great undermountain fortress had maintained these sentinel lairs on the icy crowns of the highest peaks around the mountain called Cloudseeker, beneath which lay the stronghold of the mountain dwarves.
In good times and bad, through years of dissolution and strife, even in the days when the feuding among thanes in Thorbardin had erupted into full-scale war, the Council of Chiefs and the Council of Wardens had maintained sentinel outposts to guard against intrusion. Thorbardin was impregnable, but not immune, and those within knew it. Even in the midst of fighting among themselves, the thanes paid common tariff to pay for outposts and sentinels, and volunteers were drawn from every tribe.
The volunteers served for one season at a time, and were paid according to the season. The hardiest among them sought the winter duties. A young dwarf tough enough to last out a winter in one of the Sky’s End posts, or one of those atop the Thunder Peaks to the south, could earn a full year’s easy living in Thorbardin, with coin left over for carousing among the dens and back ways of any of its several cities.
The west sentinel post on Sky’s End was at an altitude of nearly twelve thousand feet, and its six lookouts – a Hylar, a Daewar, two Daergar, and two Theiwar – could see what seemed half the world on a clear day … or in the case of the Daergar, a clear night. Now, as the icy winds began to soften just a bit, and the valleys far below grew coats of green, they were all more than ready to go home. They had seen no one all winter – no little groups of migrating Neidar, no far-ranging elven patrols, no smoke of human campfires such as had been common in recent years since the fighting broke out on the eastern plains, not even so much as the occasional wandering ogre. All through the winter, an odd quiet had reigned in the mountain fastness, and the spotters were more than just tired of the ceaseless cold and the singing, mourning winds. They were thoroughly bored as well.
In recent weeks, their off-duty conversations had turned often to the comforts and pleasures of Thorbardin – mugs of heady ale before roaring fires in the countless ale shops of the cities, challenge matches in the pits, the smell of dark bread emanating from the bakeries, the pleasure of lifting fine metal from a cherry-red forge bed to craft upon an anvil, the joy of a leisurely game of bones, the excitement of wagering on worm-pulls … and the girls. Each of them had wonderful memories and exciting anticipations regarding some special female awaiting his return – or of two or three females or, in the case of the gold-bearded young Daewar, at least a dozen.
A camaraderie had grown among them during the long, cold season, and they shared their thoughts and their dreams as they would among close friends, ignoring the fact that, once returned to Thorbardin, they would likely be caught up in the clan feuds there as before, and soon be at one another’s throats. Such harsh realities could fade from the mind in the course of a winter season on Sky’s End.
Morning, evening, and night, by twos, they stood their watch on the cold mountainside and anticipated the bright coins they would receive beyond Northgate.
And then, one bright morning, their boredom ended.
The Daewar and one of the broad-shouldered Theiwar, on morning watch on the concealed ledge outside the sentinel cave, were the first to see the strangers, and they woke the others. Far in the distance, at least thirty miles to the west, there was movement on a ridgetop, the tiny, methodical “flowing” motion of a great many people – or some kind of creatures – on the move. For a time the six all stood on the ledge, bundled in the heavy bearskin robes that made them look like bearded badgers with bright helmets, as the distant movement continued. “There are a lot of them,” a Theiwar observed. “Thousands, it looks like.”
“And they are coming this way,” the Hylar decided.
For an hour or more, the flow of distant movement continued, rank after rank of tiny specks appearing atop the faraway ridge, and moving down its visible slope, disappearing into some valley below.
“A herd of bison?” one of the Daergar suggested.
“Not likely.” The Hylar
shook his head. “They’re moving in the wrong direction for bison in this season. I think those are people. Maybe a trade caravan?”
“From where?” the Daewar protested. “They’re coming from the west. There’s nothing out there but wilderness.”
“There are Neidar settlements.”
A Theiwar shook his head, frowning with intuition. “Those are people, all right, but they’re not Neidar.”
“The only dwarves outside Thorbardin in this season are Neidar.” The Daewar frowned. “Do you suppose those are humans or something?”
“What would that many humans be doing out in the wilderness?” a Daergar puzzled. “And why would they be coming here?”
“Why do humans ever come here? To attack Thorbardin.”
“They’ve been trying and failing for centuries. That last time – what was it, four or five years ago? Lord Kane or some such name? He brought a whole army all the way from Daltigoth. But they didn’t get in. They just banged on Northgate for a while, then gave up and went away.”
“But they came from the north. These people are coming from the west. Maybe they don’t know that they can’t get in. Or maybe they’ve forgotten. I hear humans are very forgetful.”
The Hylar had brought out a far-seeing tube – a brass cylinder with glass lenses mounted in it – and they took turns peering through it. But the distant specks were too far away even for magnified vision. Then, after a time, there was nothing to look at. All of the moving specks had disappeared from view, hidden by intervening rises.
“I think we had better signal,” the Hylar decided, turning toward the enclosed cave.
“Signal what?” a Daergar scoffed cynically. “Do we say something moved, and we saw it but we don’t know what it was? I say we wait and get a better look.”
The Hylar went on into the cave, and returned with a large vibrar and a pair of wooden mallets. But he set the drum aside and crouched on the ledge, waiting. “We’ll take a better look when they’re closer,” he said. “But then, whatever or whoever is out there, we signal. Any time several thousand of anything approach Thorbardin, the gatekeepers ought to know about it.”
“I agree.” The Daergar who had spoken crouched beside the Hylar, his face hidden by the slitted iron mask his dark-sighted people favored in daylight. “But there’s plenty of time. There are still a lot of miles out there, between us and whoever is coming to call.”
The sun stood directly overhead when the strangers appeared again, topping another rise in the mountain terrain. Though still far away, they were closer now by several miles. And the direction of their line now was obvious. They were moving south of east, directly toward Thorbardin. The Hylar sentinel put the seeing-tube to his eye, peered through it, and grunted, “By Reorx! Those are dwarves!”
Beside him, the Daewar blinked in surprise. “Dwarves? What dwarves? Who are they?”
“I can’t tell,” the Hylar said, squinting into the seeing-tube. “Neidar, I suppose. All the other thanes are in Thorbardin. But so many? There are thousands of them! I’ve never seen more than a few dozen Neidar traveling together. Here, see for yourself.”
The Daewar took the device and peered through it. Magnified, the distant horde was still tiny, barely identifiable, but there was no doubt: they were dwarves. He tried to estimate their number and gave up. It was as the Hylar had said. There were thousands of them. Several thousands. And they marched as an army marches – distinct companies in orderly ranks, maintaining their formations despite the rugged terrain.
In the lead and on both flanks rode mounted companies, brightly clad dwarven figures mounted on big horses, and among those afoot were hundreds of other large beasts, some pulling carts, some laden with packs.
Here and there among the strangers, the high sun glinted on bright armor – the familiar flash of metal helmets, shields, and body plating – but what was more striking were the bright colors of fine garments. Each group and company seemed to have its own combination of colors. In one unit, yellow and brown were prominent. In another, green and black dominated, and in still another, blue and tan. Only among those in the middle of the array – those walking with the carts and pack animals – did there seem no pattern of colors, though even there bright hues were plentiful.
“They dress colorfully,” the Daewar noted, his gaze dropping to the very head of the moving band. At the point of the first mounted unit, whose preferred colors seemed to be red and gray, rode a figure whose helm and breastplate reflected the sunlight like a mirror. He wore a cloak of bright red, and the same red was used in the trappings of his horse. The sentinel peered, trying to see more detail, then handed the tube to another volunteer, one of the Theiwar. “What do you make of that one in the lead?” he asked. “I don’t think he’s a Neidar. For that matter, none of them look like Neidar to me.”
The Theiwar gazed through the tube’s lenses, then handed the device back to the Hylar. “You look,” he said. “See if that’s somebody you know.”
The Hylar squinted, then shook his head. “I can’t make out any features at this distance. Why did you think I might know him?”
“I don’t know.” The Theiwar shrugged. “There’s just something about him that reminds me of Hylar.”
“When you’ve seen one Hylar, you’ve seen them all,” the Daewar chuckled. “Of course, that applies to Theiwar, too. You people have arms as long as your legs.”
“You can keep your opinions to yourself, gold-molder,” the Theiwar growled good-naturedly.
The Hylar sentinel took another look, then passed the seeing-tube along and picked up his vibrar, hitching its leather sling over his shoulder. “We’ve seen enough to signal the gate,” he said, gripping his mallets.
A masked Daergar turned toward him. “What are you going to say is coming, a caravan or an army?”
“That mob could be either one,” another sentinel said, squinting through the tube. “Or it could be a little of both. Reorx! Look at all that armor!”
Ignoring them, the Hylar stepped to the edge of the sentinel ledge, raised his mallets, and began a deep, thunderous tattoo on the big vibrar’s taut head, using the elaborate drum-talk his ancestors had brought to these mountains centuries before. The mountainside resounded with the voice of the drum. About a minute later, another drum – around on the south face of Sky’s End – took up the song, echoing and relaying it. Moments later another drum joined in, farther away, and then another, a growing chorus of deep, thrusting rhythms, a string of receding thunders relaying the message toward the north gate of Thorbardin, many miles away on the lower slopes of Cloudseeker Peak. Some minutes passed as the drums sang, then the Theiwar who was still watching the strangers through the seeing-tube said, “Those people out there have stopped. They must have heard the drums.”
“What are they doing?” the Daewar asked.
“I can’t tell. Something is going on in that lead unit, but I can’t see what.”
The Hylar sentinel continued his tattoo for a time, then lowered the drum and listened. From the south came a brief response, and he nodded. “Message received,” he said. “Northgate is alerted.”
He was heading into the shelter cave to put up his vibrar when the air rang again with distant thunder. He turned abruptly, listening. The sound was coming not from the south, not from Thorbardin, but from the west, and the message of it made his mouth drop open. “It’s them!” he shouted, pointing. “The strangers – they are signaling with drums!”
For a moment, all six sentinels stared in wonder at the distant assemblage. It was incredible that strangers, coming from the western wilderness, should have such drums. It was even more incredible that they would know how to use them. Even among the thanes of Thorbardin, few dwarves other than the Hylar ever mastered the vibrar signal-song.
The sentinels stared across the miles, listening, then the Daewar turned to the Hylar. “Well, what do they say?”
“They speak to Thorbardin,” the Hylar said slowly. “They say greetings
from Hammerhand, to the chieftains and the Council of Thanes. They say Hammerhand comes to trade. They say Hammerhand will make camp below Northgate, and invites the trade wardens out to inspect his goods. He also says that he will meet with the Council of Thanes.”
“Who is Hammerhand?” the Daewar puzzled. “I’ve never heard the name. Have you?”
None of them had. “Whoever he is, he’s arrogant,” a Theiwar said. “An outsider, requesting audience with the Council of Thanes!”
“He isn’t requesting,” the Hylar said, still listening to the drums, interpreting their song. “He doesn’t ask for a meeting. He demands it.”
Throughout that day, and all of the next, sentinels on Sky’s End and sentries on Cloudseeker watched as the throng of strangers approached, moving at the leisurely pace of the pack beasts among them. By the end of the second day, they had cleared the final ridges, with Cloudseeker’s north slopes directly ahead of them. The encampment they made there, along an icy little stream, was no more than three miles from the stepped slopes where the big mountain began.
By then, hundreds of seeing-tubes were trained on them, from the sentinel posts and from the walled ledge at the top of the great ramps that led to Northgate. The great oval gate was open, its impregnable plug retracted into the shadows behind its steel sheath, and a growing crowd of dwarves was gathered on the ledge, watching the intruders.
The strange drums were silent now. The strangers went about their chores, making camp for the night, and seemed to pointedly ignore all those on the mountain ahead who were gaping at them. Several times, drummers had come out of Thorbardin to signal, asking the strangers to identify themselves, asking where they were from and what they had that they wanted to trade, asking who was this Hammerhand who demanded access to the Council of Thanes. But there had been no response. It was as though the strangers had said all they had to say and were not interested in answering questions.
