When it was over, four dwarves were counted dead and three others injured. At Derkin’s direction, the victors collected every goblin corpse in the vicinity, as well as those of the dead slavers hidden in the other cabin, and threw all the bodies into an abandoned pit, which they then filled in. They kept all the fallen weapons and bits of human armor. The goblins’ armor was buried with them. As Derkin explained to Tuft, no dwarf would ever wear anything that had been worn by a goblin. It was impossible to wash out the stench.
When all that was done, Derkin gathered his new army in the compound. “We’ll rest here a few days,” he told them. “You’ll eat well, tend your wounds, and clean yourselves. Those fit to work can set up a forge and start making weapons. We’ll need hammers, axes, swords, pikes … anything any of you know how to use. And I am going to drill you in orderly combat. I—”
A hand went up, and a dwarf said, “Excuse me …”
Derkin turned to him. “Yes?”
“That all sounds fine,” the miner said. “But just who the blazes are you, anyway?”
“My name is Derkin,” he said. “I’m your leader.”
“Who says?”
“I do,” he said flatly.
Nobody dared disagree.
Behind the longhouse, the dwarven women had fires going and great tubs of water heating, and were cutting soap into small bars. They had decided that the first thing to do was to get the “soldiers” fit to be around. Dwarves, clothes, tools, and weapons all were to be thoroughly scrubbed.
When they were ready, Helta went to Derkin and handed him a piece of soap, a comb, and a pair of shears. “You, too,” she said. “If you’re going to be a leader, then look like one.”
6
The Chosen Ones
“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” Calan Silvertoe told Derkin as they strolled across what had been—only days before—the central compound of a slave-run mine camp. All around them, dwarves in all sorts of dress and oddments of armor toiled, two by two, flailing away at each other with wooden swords, defending with shields made of everything from hardwood to stretched leather. Nearby, hammers rang on anvils, and a makeshift forge made the air above it dance with heat-shimmers. Dozens of crafters worked there, turning smelted iron into weapons. In the nearby shed, stacks of weapons of all sorts grew by the hour.
Among the combatants on the field, seeming to tower over them, Tuft Broadland stalked, shouting instructions and criticisms—mostly the latter. As Neidar dwarves, the miners—even the women—were naturally skilled with axes, hammers, slings, javelins, and spears. They had used such tools all their lives. And as miners, most of them were expert shield users. But few of them had ever held a sword, and Derkin had set the human to teach them how.
“We have no steel here,” he had explained to them. “The weapons we can make readily will be rough iron. In battle, they will dull quickly, and some will break. We may have to outfit ourselves from what the enemy drops. The enemy will be mostly humans, and most humans prefer swords.”
“Where are we going, Derkin?” some of them asked.
“Beyond Tharkas Pass, to Klanath,” he said.
“Why?”
“To get the rest of our army.”
It was answer enough for the freed slaves. They had accepted him as their leader, and in the manner of most dwarves, they were satisfied to let the leader worry about the details. So, for now, the kitchen turned out substantial meals morning and night, poultices and liniments did their work on sores and wounds, and every dwarf able to stand erect practiced swordplay and battle tactics every waking hour.
In a span of three days, Derkin converted a wretched gaggle of freed slaves into a formidable fighting force. The Chosen Ones, they called themselves. How the name originated was unclear, but every member of Derkin’s little tribe seemed to have adopted it. It was a source of pride, and it gave them strength. But still, the passing of time chafed the Hylar. He was troubled and tense now as he walked with Calan Silvertoe, watching the sword drills.
For the first time in more than two years, Derkin Winterseed felt—and looked—like the Hylar he was. Soap and hot water had sloughed away the accumulated filth of the slave pens. Good food and sunlight had brought rich color to his cheeks, and a determined shearing by Helta and Nadeen had tamed his long hair and tangled beard. Now in leather kilt and soft-weave blouse, sturdy boots, studded gauntlets and flowing cloak, and wearing a lacquered steel breastplate and a horned helmet—where the women had found such things remained a mystery, except that the armor was very old indeed—Derkin looked every inch the Hylar warrior. His dark, backswept beard was trimmed short, his hair curled at his collar, and his cloak was of heavy red cloth, fresh from a newly rebuilt loom in the longhouse. He carried a small forearm shield, and a heavy hammer was slung at his shoulder.
He had been embarrassed at the elegant attire when the women first brought it. But he discovered quickly that his “army” followed him far more happily when he wore it. It was as Helta had said: to be a leader, look like one.
Helta had surveyed the results and given him a dazzling smile. “Now you look like him,” she had said.
“Like who?” he wondered. But she had only smiled again, a secretive, satisfied smile, and ignored the question.
Now old Calan Silvertoe glanced at him and frowned. “You look worried,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“The pit slaves, back at Klanath,” he admitted. “Too much time is passing. They may all be dead or mutilated by now. If so, then this whole effort is wasted.”
“They’re all right,” Calan assured him. “Despaxas and his pet shadow are keeping an eye on them.”
“How can they be all right?” Derkin demanded. “The humans have had all these days to punish them.”
“But they haven’t,” Calan said. “Your cell mates are holed up in their cell, with food and weapons, and no human has touched them.”
“Where did they get food and weapons?”
“The elf has his ways.” The old dwarf frowned. “As I understand it, he … uh … transported some things from the guards’ quarters and the central larder. So they’re barricaded in the pit cell, and for the time, nobody is bothering them.”
“Why not?”
The old Daewar grinned wolfishly. “Do you remember the pit boss, a man called Shalit Mileen?”
“I remember him,” Derkin growled. “He ordered the beatings I took … and the heavy chain.”
“Well, it seems Shalit Mileen is keeping it a secret that his slaves have revolted. He was plotting against the Master of Mines, and Renus Sabad will blame him for everything. Now Shalit Mileen is plotting to try to keep his head, thanks to you. And to me, of course, and Despaxas.”
“How does Despaxas know what’s going on in the pit?”
“Don’t ask me.” Calan shrugged. “I don’t understand his magics.”
“But you trust him,” Derkin said, stepping in front of the old dwarf to look into his eyes.
“As much as I’ve ever trusted anybody,” Calan assured him. “He says I saved his life once, and I suppose that’s true. It was a long time ago, when I was still a trader out of Thorbardin, and before Despaxas learned his spells. A wild ogre had him cornered, without his weapons, and I happened along. I killed the ogre, but not before it bit off my arm.”
“But how do you know an elf can be trusted?”
“He could have left me there to die,” Calan said. “But he didn’t. He nursed me back to health.” The old dwarf squinted, then turned and pointed across the training field. “How do you know you can trust that human?”
“I believe his interests are the same as mine,” Derkin said.
“And so are the elf’s.”
“I don’t like magicians.”
“Nobody likes magicians,” Calan agreed. “But you’ll have to admit, a decent one can be useful now and then.”
Directly behind Calan, the air shimmered, and suddenly Despaxas stood there, his smooth cheeks draw
n in an ironic smile. “Thank you,” he purred.
Calan spun around, almost tripping on his own feet. “I wish you’d stop doing that!” he snapped.
“Sorry,” the elf said. “But I have disturbing news. Lord Kane has arrived at Klanath to prepare for the inspections. He has ordered a brigade through the pass to fortify this compound. He intends to open all the shafts over here and build a citadel. With a presence at both ends of Tharkas Pass, Lord Kane can claim all the lands from here to Thorbardin’s north gate.”
“Like blazes he can!” Derkin hissed. “This is dwarven land.”
“A brigade!” Calan frowned. “When are the soldiers coming?”
“They are on the march now,” Despaxas said. “Both cavalry and foot. By nightfall, they will be in the pass.”
Tuft Broadland had arrived in time to hear the report. He swore, shook his head, and glared at the elf, then sighed. “Then you’ve lost before you begin,” he told Derkin sadly. “We’ll never get to Klanath now.”
“We’ll get there,” Derkin growled. His cloak swirling, he turned and beckoned. Instantly, the burly dwarves who made up his personal guard, the Ten, hurried to him. “Let everyone prepare to travel,” he told them. “We are going to Klanath.”
“Aye,” the First of the Ten said, saluting crisply. Followed by the others, he hurried away.
Tuft stared at Derkin and shook his head. “It’s impossible,” he said. “We’ll never get past an entire brigade in that pass with barely two hundred fighters.”
“We aren’t going through the pass,” Derkin snapped. “We’re going over it.”
The man blinked, then looked at the high, sheer walls of mountain climbing toward the sky. “No man could climb that,” he muttered.
Beside him, Calan Silvertoe grinned. “We aren’t men,” he reminded the human. “We’re dwarves.”
First light of a new morning touched the mountaintops and reflected downward to light the lower slopes. Where Tharkas Camp had once stood, now there was nothing but the riven slopes, desolate ground, and feathers of smoke that rose from a place not only abandoned, but razed and leveled. Leaving Tharkas with his Chosen Ones, Derkin Winterseed left no one behind, and nothing that could benefit human intruders. Where once there had been mine shafts, now there were only tumbled slopes. The mines had been caved in and sealed. Where there had been a few buildings, now there were piles of ash. Everything that might be useful and could be carried, the Chosen Ones had taken with them. Everything that was left, they had methodically destroyed, scattered, hidden, or buried. Except for the diminishing smoke from the ashes and the scars left on the land by two years of human-directed mining, there might never have been a place called Tharkas Mines. A stranger viewing the scene on this morning would have seen no trace of life anywhere about—unless he looked upward.
There, a pair of miles away and half a mile above, a winding string of tiny dots moved on the sheer face of Tharkas Heights. In a place where no human could have gone, on a sheer, nearly vertical granite slope that no human could have scaled, Derkin Winterseed and the Chosen Ones crept upward, climbing toward the crest above the west side of Tharkas Pass. By rope and hammer, by spike and sling, by javelin and throw-line, by hand- and toehold, hoist, and piton, and by sheer, stubborn determination, the dwarves worked their way upward, doing the thing that was as much second nature to dwarves as was delving or metalcraft—climbing.
And those who could not climb—a few of the mine dwarves who were sick or injured, old Calan Silvertoe because he had only one arm, and Tuft Broadland because he was human—were hoisted, lifted, and carried in slings as baggage. For Tuft, it was an experience he would never forget. As they neared the top, he found himself swinging in space over a ledge, the nearest horizontal surface thousands of feet below him as he clung to a flimsy rope rising slowly to the tugs of a pair of burly dwarves perched precariously on an impossible slope above.
“If I ever get out of this,” he swore over and over, “I hope I never see another mountain.”
Just above and to his right, Calan Silvertoe lounged happily in a net sling, also being hoisted aloft. His voice rich with suppressed laughter, he said, “We’ve been trying for centuries to explain to you people, this land just isn’t for humans. I guess now at least one of you agrees.”
The journey to the crest above Tharkas Pass took most of a day. From the stony peak, the dwarves looked down into the shadowed depths of Tharkas Pass. More than half a mile below, seeming almost straight down, columns of soldiers moved, heading south. Lord Kane’s expeditionary brigade was on its way into old Kal-Thax to take command of the dwarven realm.
“I’d like to drop rocks on the whole army down there,” Calan Silvertoe growled.
“Leave them alone,” Derkin ordered. “With them gone, we’ll have fewer to contend with at Klanath.” Turning away from the chasm, he got his shield and hammer from one of the baggage slings, donned his horned helmet and red cloak, and headed northwest, angling away from the deep pass. The slope on this side of the mountain wall was less precipitous, a long, rolling decline where wind-shaped trees dotted the rugged landscape, foretelling the forests that would begin lower down. It was easier travel than the long climb had been, but it was still twenty miles to Klanath, and he was anxious to be on his way. The Hylar had no illusions about how he had gotten into this venture. He had been manipulated by a magic-using elf and an old one-armed Daewar schemer. But with true dwarven stubbornness, Derkin Winterseed—once committed to a task—would pursue it with as much grim determination as if it had been his own idea all along.
Behind him, the Chosen Ones gathered up their packs, their supplies, and their weapons, and hurried to follow. Most of them had only the vaguest notion of what lay ahead, but the Hylar called Derkin had freed them from slavery, from imprisonment, and from goblins. He was their leader. He was their chieftain, and where he went they would go.
When Sakar Kane arrived at Klanath, with three brigades of the emperor’s troops in addition to his usual retinue, the first thing he did was send one brigade south through Tharkas Pass. Rumors had come to his ears in Daltigoth that there were those among the secondary nobility who had designs on the former dwarven realm, now that the dwarves of Thorbardin seemed no longer to be a threat. Lord Kane had heard that at least two of his peers at court had plans of their own for the mountain lands and were gathering supporters.
By placing his own troops south of the pass, Lord Kane intended to stop any such venture before it began. The one who held Tharkas, he reasoned, would control access to the land the dwarves called—or had once called—Kal-Thax. Lord Kane had been assured that, in return for his services at Klanath, the emperor would grant the mountain lands to him to govern. He intended to have those lands thoroughly within his control when that occurred.
With the brigade on its way south, Lord Kane assigned the rest of his army to garrison and retired to the citadel that was being completed for him. He entered, followed by his servants, porters, personal guard, and attendants, and had the great gates closed. The dozen or so other nobles who had arrived with him, he left to find their own accommodations.
When he had dined and been entertained by musicians and dancers, he sent runners to find the Master of Klanath Mines, the chief of guards, and other local functionaries to command them to attend him. Then he retired to his private quarters.
Within the hour, every local notable in Klanath would be gathered in Lord Kane’s great hall, awaiting his pleasure. He would let them all cool their heels for at least a day, pacing and fretting. It would remind them of who he was. Then, when he was ready, they would report to him individually. After that he would personally conduct the usual formal inspection of the mines. It was a tiresome routine, but the emperor commanded that it be done.
Lord Kane did not look forward to the inspection. The mines were dirty, stinking holes and did not interest him. But they were the public reason for Lord Kane’s being here. The private—and primary—reason was to establi
sh a base for a general invasion of the central plains to the east.
The assault had already begun, of course. It had been under way for nearly three years, but it had been a covert, scattered incursion so far. Small units of the armies had escorted hordes of “settlers” into various parts of the plains, driving out those already settled there and replacing them with people committed to the emperor’s purposes. It was preparation for a full-scale invasion in force, that would carry the banner of the empire as far as the Khalkist realms and the elven forests.
The “quiet” invasion had gone very well, indeed. Vast areas east of the Kharolis mountains now were populated by the faithful. Only in two areas had there been real trouble. Those “settlers” entering the lands of the Cobar nomads had met fierce opposition. The Cobar tribes—barbarian horsemen mostly—had united against the intruders, and had literally driven them away, again and again. What should have been a simple taking of lands had turned into an all-out war, and it was still going on.
And far to the southeast, the emperor’s subjects had come up against another kind of force. Elves from Silvanesti had come out of their beloved forests, and were scattered throughout the rolling lands of eastern Ergoth. And the elves neither welcomed nor honored the empire’s presence. Led by an elf called Kith-Kanan, the western—or “Wildrunner”—elves had stopped the emperor’s “settlers” far short of their goal.
Privately, Lord Kane doubted the empire’s ability to win a war against the elves, if it came to that. But that would be someone else’s problem, not his. He had his own assignments and his own plans.
He would conduct his inspection of the emperor’s mines and prepare supply lines for the armies that would soon be coming through, heading east. Then he would set about securing his hold on Tharkas Pass and the mountain lands beyond.
For days, nothing much had happened in the vicinity of the big underground cell behind the first soft-ore pit. Within the cell, some two thousand dwarves ate, slept, stood guard on their fortified gate, and waited. There had been some fighting right at first—companies of guards slipping into the outer corridor to try to direct attacks on the cell—but the dwarves had turned the attacks with swarms of missiles hurled or fired through the grating. And then, the soldiers had withdrawn. Now there was a strong guard on the corridor itself, but no assaults on the cell. The dwarves could tell by the sounds echoing in from the great pit that work was proceeding there. Other slaves had been transferred from other pits, and the mining went on.
The Swordsheath Scroll Page 8
