It was Tap Tolec who first realized what was going on. “The inspections,” he said, with good Theiwar intuition. “Those trumpets we heard before, they meant the inspectors have arrived from Daltigoth. I think the deputy is trying to keep us secret until the nobles leave.”
Vin the Shadow crouched beside him. “Why would he do that?” he asked.
“He has been plotting against the Master of Mines,” Tap surmised. “That’s why the rich ore was hoarded in the seventh and ninth shafts. Shalit Mileen planned to bring it out at inspection and disgrace the old man. But then we barricaded the cell, and the guards couldn’t reach us. For that, the disgrace would fall on Shalit Mileen. I think he’s hiding us and using the hoarded ore to make it seem that the pits are in full operation so no one will know that a fourth of his slaves are in revolt and barricaded in their cell.”
“It could be.” Vin nodded. “Such a thing would truly disgrace him if it were known.”
“Probably cost him his head.” Tap grinned. “Maybe we should get the word out that we’re here. I’d like to see the pit boss beheaded.”
“They’d behead us first,” Vin pointed out.
“Well, yes, there is that,” Tap agreed. “Of course, after the inspection, Shalit Mileen will have plenty of time to do with us as he will. My guess is, if we don’t surrender then, he’ll set delvers above and bury us alive.”
“That bowl said help was on the way,” the Daergar reminded.
“I know what the bowl said,” Vin grumbled gloomily. “And I find myself wondering if we’re all crazy, believing something a bowl told us.”
Distantly, then, a trumpet sounded, followed by others. Around the dark cell, dwarves listened and glanced at one another. They had all heard that particular call before. It was evening call, but much more. It was inspection call, telling everyone in Klanath to prepare.
“Whatever that bowl has in mind,” Tap said darkly, “it had better hurry. The inspection begins at first light tomorrow.”
Vin the Shadow jumped to his feet. “Hush!” he said. “Listen!”
The distant blaring of trumpets had become a mighty chorus, with every caller in the city joining in. The blast of sound almost drowned out other, lesser noises … but not quite. Good dwarven ears heard something else, as well. Somewhere very near, weapons rang, and deep war cries—dwarven war cries—echoed the cries of frightened, surprised men.
7
Battle of the Pit
Arriving on the heights above the Klanath mines, Derkin Winterseed waved his followers into cover and crept forward to survey the scene below. For a moment, the sight staggered him. He had never seen Klanath from above, and the sheer sprawl of the settlement shocked him. It was a fair-sized city, spread out on the flatlands and low hills below the mines. On a central knoll stood a grand stronghold—a palace rising among scaffolds, surrounded by walled courtyards. All around the central compound were clusters and rows of all kinds of buildings, many hundreds of them stretching downward and away toward the distant forests beyond.
At first glance, Derkin’s impulse was to call the whole thing off. There were humans down there by the thousands, and among them armed patrols carrying the pennant of the empire. Even in evening shadow, as the sun of Krynn went to its rest beyond the western ranges, the task looked impossible. How were two hundred dwarves—more or less—ever going to slip unnoticed through such a place, to even reach the pit mines, much less free the dwarven slaves there?
Frowning and worried, he scanned the terrain below, memorizing it. And in memorizing it, he analyzed the patterns of it, and felt a bit more hopeful. City or not, the place was like any slave camp. Its defenses were designed to keep people in, not to keep people out.
Directly below him, and spreading out on both sides, were the ledges and ramps behind which were the shaft mines. Farther down the steep slope was a sprawl of ramshackle buildings, most of them no more than pole sheds. And just beyond those were the soft-ore pits—four deep, wide holes where lamps and torches moved. The nearest of the pits he recognized by its wide entry ramp. It was the first pit. And within it was the cell he had so recently occupied.
Everywhere in the city were patrols and guards, and on the distant northward road was a large encampment of empire soldiers. But the mining section had only perimeter guards, and those were mostly on the downward side. The various mines themselves had guards, of course, but mostly inside. There was no need for the Chosen Ones to make their way through the teeming sprawl of human Klanath. The city lay beyond the mines, below them. With a slight smile from a god or two, they could be in and out of the mines before forces from the city could react.
“Reorx,” he muttered, making quick plans, “favor us now.”
He signaled with his hand, and others crept forward to crouch beside him. “There,” he pointed, indicating a brushy draw that led down the slope, separating the ledges of the shaft mines into two sections. “There is our path in, and with some luck, our path out as well.”
At dark of evening, Derkin began his assault. Leaving the women and the injured hidden on the high slope, he led the rest into the wide, brushy cut and downward. Passing between shaft mines where lanterns were being lighted, they crept silently down the slope. A hundred yards, and they paused, listening. Another hundred, and they gathered in brush shadows above the cluster of barns and sheds. In a hushed voice, Derkin selected two squads of a dozen dwarves each, and gave them their orders. The selected ones were all young, strong, and agile, and all had at least some Daergar blood. When they understood what they were to do, he signaled the rest and stepped out of cover, heading straight toward the ramp of pit one. From here to the pit there was no cover, but Derkin was counting on the dusk and surprise, and counting even more on human nature. The guards at the ramp, he assumed, were interested in two things—the pit below them, and the stone-paved road that wound its way upward from the city.
“Humans are creatures of habit,” his father had told him once, a long time ago. “They are quick to see what they expect to see, but slow to notice what they do not expect.”
Beyond the sheds were fifty yards of open ground, with nothing to hide their approach. Therefore, Derkin discarded stealth in favor of speed and silence.
One hundred seventy pairs of strong, short legs raced toward the top of the ramp, where four cloaked guardsmen leaned on their spears. Sand scuffed beneath one hundred seventy pairs of running feet, and one of the guards raised his head curiously. Then another, and another.
“Reorx,” Derkin muttered, taking a good grip on his hammer. And as he had barely dared to hope they would, all four guards became alert at the approaching sound … and all four turned their backs on the charging dwarves, turning instead toward the Klanath road.
Without warning or challenge, the dwarves hit them. One fell sprawling as Derkin’s hammer thudded between his shoulders, smashing his spine. From the corners of his eyes, Derkin saw other guards fall, and he raced on, down the ramp. It seemed to him that their encounter had been noisy and clattering, but he realized instantly that the four guards at the foot of the ramp had not noticed it. It was always noisy in the pits, and the four were kneeling in a tight circle, playing bones. It was doubtful that any of them ever knew what hit them.
On the floor of the pit, slaves just completing their day’s tasks gawked in astonishment as the armed dwarves streamed among them, heading for the cell corridor. One surprised slave dropped a loaded hod, and suddenly the mouth of the corridor was crowded with humans, gaping at the approaching attack, stumbling over one another as they grabbed up weapons.
Again without hesitation, Derkin led his Chosen Ones directly into the thick of the humans, slashing and battering with his hammer, his forearm shield dancing as blades rang against it.
There was no more silence now, nor any need for it. Derkin bellowed the only battle cry he had ever learned—an old Hylar war cry from distant times—and all around him other dwarves took it up, and the din of battle echoed with the
chants that once had accompanied the beating of war drums.
The guard force at the corridor was a full company—fifty tall human males, armed with swords and maces, spears and daggers. The sheer force of the dwarven attack carried Derkin well into the cell corridor and halfway through the clot of men. Then he found himself in the midst of all-out fighting on all sides. Nearby, a hastily crafted axe splintered its edge against a human shield, and a dwarf went down, writhing, with a spearhead through his chest. Dwarves were falling, but men were falling, too, and every good steel weapon that was dropped was grabbed by a dwarven hand before it stopped ringing.
The former slaves fought with a ferocious energy, making up in zeal what they lacked in practice. In a glance, Derkin saw two howling dwarves leap onto a human guard, wrench his sword from his hand as they bowled him over, then slash him to death with it.
For what seemed like hours, the fighting raged. Then the fury of it diminished suddenly. More than half the guard company was down, their blood mixing with that of a dozen or more dwarves who had seen their last sunrise. The rest of the humans were in panic, trying to escape the fury of the dwarves. A few scampered away, past attackers and out into the open pit. Most, though, turned and ran along the corridor, toward the slave cell. Shouting, Derkin pursued them, his Chosen Ones following. The corridor veered, then straightened, and the barricaded grating of the cell gate lay just ahead. Beyond it, the corridor ended.
It was then that the panicked humans realized they had fled into a trap. They spun about in desperation. But even as they turned, raising bloody weapons, a hail of bronze bolts, sling-stones, and various other flung objects erupted through the grating to smash among them. Everywhere, men fell, but they were not alone. A heavy dart sang between two of the men, missed Derkin’s face by an inch, and buried itself in the skull of a dwarf behind him. And as men pitched forward, dying, more missiles thudded among the dwarves.
“Hold!” Derkin roared. “You in the cell! We’re on your side!”
The hail of missiles stopped abruptly, and a voice beyond the grating shouted, “Well, rust th’ buckets! It’s that Hylar! Come on, let’s get out there and help!”
Barricades were tumbled aside, and the big gates lurched open, dwarves by the hundreds streaming through. Some had weapons and some did not. All were ragged, filthy, and disreputable-looking, but the fervor with which they fell upon the few remaining humans bordered on sheer, savage joy. Within seconds, the only living souls in the corridor were dwarves.
Pushing and cursing, Derkin shouldered his way through a thickening crowd. “Follow me!” he shouted, trying to be heard above their babble. “Let’s get out of this place!”
Gradually, with a lot of help from his lieutenants and others, he got the crowd silenced and headed for the open pit. He found himself caught up in a stampede of dwarves. Strong hands on both sides of him clutched his shoulders and hurried him forward as a wedge of dwarves plowed through the moving crowd, clearing a path with fists and curses.
“Make way!” someone roared. “Make way for the leader! He can’t lead from back here, for rust’s sake!”
Abruptly, Derkin was at the head of the exodus, and the hands at his shoulders set him down. In dim torchlight, he recognized the Neidar slave called Tap, and the Daergar miner called Vin the Shadow.
“Glad you made it.” Tap smiled at the Hylar, admiring his bright garb and glistening armor. “Though I’d never have recognized you if you hadn’t opened your mouth back there.”
“I’m here to get you people out,” Derkin said.
“We know,” Vin the Shadow rasped, a grin splitting his matted beard. “That bowl told us.”
Derkin didn’t have a chance to ask what bowl he was talking about. They were moving along the corridor at double time, and at that moment more dwarves met them, just inside the entrance. The first one stopped, gawked at the resplendent Hylar with the horde of fighters and slaves behind him, then turned and backed away. Behind them, a double file of ragged slaves had entered the tunnel, dragging the bleeding, mutilated corpses of several human guards.
“These tried to get away,” one of the new dwarves explained, squinting. “We, ah … sort of guessed that you didn’t want them to.”
“They’re pretty messed up,” another said, as though apologizing. “Chains and hod-poles do that, you know.”
“Thanks,” Derkin said. “Now stand aside. We have to get out of here before—”
“Out?” a dwarf interrupted, frowning at him. “You don’t have everybody yet. There are three more cells, in the other three pits.”
“I didn’t plan on …”
“We sent word through the tunnels,” a slave assured him. “It shouldn’t take long. Everyone will be ready to leave as soon as you free them. What are you going to do about our chains, though?”
Tap Tolec stepped past Derkin. “Get your friends out of their cells,” he said. “We’ll get their chains off of them.”
Derkin glared at the slaves around him, and realized that—leader or not—he didn’t have the deciding vote on this. He had come for two thousand slaves. He would leave with eight thousand, or not leave at all. “All right!” he snapped. “Chosen Ones, follow me! The rest of you, keep to cover and be ready to break chains. Reorx!” he added to himself. “By now every human in Klanath will have heard the fighting.”
“Probably not,” a slave said. “Couldn’t hear much at all, out in the pit. I. doubt if anybody above heard a thing.”
Derkin had planned for not more than a quarter-hour in the pits. Strike hard, move fast, and get out quickly had been his strategy. But the campaign took on a life of its own, as campaigns do, and an hour had passed by the time the Chosen reached the fourth pit. There had been only a few sleepy guards in pits two and three, and the releases there had been quick and fairly silent.
There was a surprise, though, at pit four. Moving fast and silently, seasoned now by practice, the Chosen Ones stormed that pit’s cell corridor, killed the entrance guards cleanly, and were on their way to the cell beyond when dozens of robed and armored humans appeared, coming around a turn in the tunnel. The man in the lead was the pit boss himself, Shalit Mileen.
The men stopped, gawked at the bloody weapons and hands and the fierce eyes of the advancing dwarves. Mileen’s mouth dropped open, then he drew a broadsword from his shoulder sling, shouted “Kill them!” and charged. Derkin Winterseed, in the lead, deflected the burly man’s first slash with his shield, but the impact of it bowled him over. He rolled to the side, broke the knee of a man going over him, and knocked the feet out from under another, then struggled upright. Furious combat filled the ringing tunnel, and more than a few dwarves fell as they bore down on the humans.
Abruptly, though, the clatter diminished, and only one man remained on his feet. It was Shalit Mileen. The man stormed and flailed about him, keeping dozens of dwarves at bay with his flashing broadsword.
Quickly, Derkin laid down his arms, removed his chest armor, and tugged his blouse from beneath the waist of his kilt. With hard hands, he unwrapped the length of heavy chain from around his waist, doubled it, and swung it in a circle over his head. “Back away!” he ordered the dwarves. “This one is mine.”
Shalit Mileen whirled at the sound of his voice, and cruel eyes brightened. “Ah,” he said. “The red-cloak. What do you have there, dink? A chain?”
“You should know,” Derkin rasped, his voice as deep and cold as mountain snow. “You gave it to me.”
The man’s eyes widened. “I gave it … Yes! I know you! Troublemaker!” With a roar of rage, he sprang at Derkin, his big sword flashing downward. The Hylar dodged aside, and the blade clanged on stone. Derkin lashed out with his doubled chain. The heavy links struck like a snake, coiling around the human’s ankle, and Derkin set his feet and pulled. With a crash, Shalit Mileen went over backward. He rolled, trying to get to his knees, but Derkin was astride his back, pummeling his ribs with drumming heels. The chain slipped around the bull neck
of the pit boss, and the dwarf’s shoulders bulged as he looped it and pulled, tightening it like a garrotte.
Shalit Mileen thrashed and tumbled, rolled and struggled, but the dwarf clung to him like a shackle, never for an instant releasing the brutal pressure on the chain. The man’s face went dark, his eyes bulged, and his tongue protruded. Flailing, he rolled onto his back, with the dwarf beneath him, still increasing the strangling pressure of the heavy chain.
For a moment more, the man struggled, his thrashings diminishing to twitches. Then he was still. Derkin clambered from beneath him, tossing aside the ends of the chain. He looked around, found his hammer, picked it up, and pointed it at the slave cell. “Open that gate,” he said. “Let those people out.”
“Look at this,” a dwarf said nearby. Someone raised a lantern. Beyond the cell, where the gate was being opened, the light revealed another cavern—a large, newly delved place, half-filled with heaps of bright, rich metallic ores.
“He was hoarding the ore,” a dwarf said, delivering a kick to the body of Shalit Mileen. “He thought he could become Master of Mines.”
“He isn’t master of anything, now,” another freed slave said. “That hammerhand over there”—he pointed toward Derkin—“if anyone is master of the pits now, I’d say it’s him.”
Tap Tolec glanced around at the words, thoughtfully. “Hammerhand,” he said, to no one in particular. “A good name, Hammerhand. Aye, Derkin Hammerhand is the true master of these pits. And I for one will help him become master of anywhere else he decides to go.”
The Swordsheath Scroll Page 9
