“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.
About sundown, Hylar guards appeared on the ledge, using their shields to clear a path through the crowd there. Behind them, two dwarves stepped from the great open portal, and walked to the wall to look down. If anyone could be said to be “in charge” of Thorbardin in these troubled times, it was these two. Both were mature dwarves, in their middle years, and both were hardened by the burden they carried. Of all the various chieftains, wardens, bosses, and gang leaders who came and went throughout the vast, subterranean realm of the mountain dwarves, it had fallen to Dunbarth Ironthumb and Jeron Redleather to keep Thorbardin functioning despite the explosive feuds and myriad hostilities within.
Jeron Redleather, chieftain of Thane Daewar and senior member of the Council of Thanes, was a burly, bright-eyed dwarf. The elaborate gold inlays of his helmet and breastplate reflected the gold of his flowing hair and full beard, and both the exquisite faceted stone set in his helm, just above his bushy brows, and the rich blue of his flowing cloak reflected the color of his eyes. Ruddy cheeks and a round pug nose gave him the appearance of constant, secret laughter, and the rich gaudiness of his attire might have seemed to indicate a strutting vanity. Like most Daewar, Jeron Redleather enjoyed bright color and rich attire to the point of seeming—to dwarves of other thanes—pompous and a bit preposterous, but was actually nothing of the sort. Jeron Redleather could be jovial on occasion, and might strut a bit now and then, but those who knew him—friend and foe alike—were well aware he could be as tough and rigid as the very stone of Thorbardin.
His companion, Dunbarth Ironthumb, was every inch the Hylar chieftain, though he had refused for years to be chieftain of his thane. To be chieftain, he felt, would oblige him to take part in the various feuds that kept erupting in Thorbardin, and he had no interest in feuds. Of all the tribes, or thanes, only the Hylar had managed over the years to avoid the constant conflicts under the mountain, though even Harl Thrustweight, the last Hylar chieftain, had been hard pressed to remain aloof when all about him were at one another’s throats.
Harl Thrustweight was a legendary name among the Hylar. He had maintained and enforced the “Hylar Peace” among the thanes until his untimely death in a mysterious rockfall near the Theiwar city of Theibardin. Although nothing was ever proven, it was suspected that the rockfall was no accident, and a band of Theiwar led by the schemer Than-Kar had left Thorbardin soon after, never to return.
Harl Thrustweight had been the last chieftain of the Hylar, because Dunbarth Ironthumb refused to take the job, and his stubborn people refused to choose someone else. Thus the Hylar now had no chieftain. Dunbarth Ironthumb did, though, represent Thane Hylar on the Council of Thanes. And with the passing of time he had become its strongest member in many ways.
Between them, with or without the support of the rest of the council, the Daewar and the Hylar exercised enough wisdom and influence to keep Thorbardin functioning as a realm, and to keep the still simmering grudges and feuds among the thanes from erupting into any further outright civil wars.
Dour and thoughtful, the Hylar’s dark eyes, dark hair, and short, backswept beard gave him an air of aloofness which was as misleading as the Daewar’s appearance of careless joviality. Attired in his usual muted colors—leather kilt, dark leather boots, gray-brown jerkin, and gray cloak, his body armor, shield, and helm almost devoid of ornamentation—Dunbarth Ironthumb might have appeared cold and remote, uncaring of the tumults and turmoils of the dwarven realm he so influenced. Those who knew him, though, knew better. Not in all of Thorbardin, most agreed, was there anyone more dedicated to the welfare and perpetuity of the undermountain realm than Dunbarth Ironthumb.
Now the two leaders, the Daewar and the Hylar, looked out across the valley below the slopes, puzzled and worried. They had never heard of a dwarf called Hammerhand, nor of any such formidable array of dwarves as was now spread along the little stream.
The leader had been described to them by sentinels who said he looked to be of Hylar origin, but no one recognized him or knew his name. And now, with the horde encamped a few hours’ march from the ramps of Northgate, he was nowhere in sight. None of the hundreds of watchers had seen him since the night before, when the strangers were still fifteen or more miles away.
“Any ideas?” Dunbarth asked now, shielding his eyes against the last rays of sunset.
“They say they come to trade,” Jeron Redleather said. “And those carts and pack beasts seem to carry goods. I think we should—” He stopped abruptly, turning half around, then shrugged. “Odd,” he muttered. “I thought someone brushed against me just then.”
“You were saying?” Dunbarth reminded.
“Oh, yes.” The Daewar turned again to the low wall. “I think we should send traders to meet them tomorrow. If they have goods to trade, why not welcome them?”
“But the rest of it? That demand for a meeting with the council?”
“Oh, we won’t do that, of course,” Jeron said. “And we certainly won’t let any of them inside Thorbardin. Not until we know a good deal more about them at any rate.”
“Then after the traders go out tomorrow, we’ll close the gate and keep it closed,” Dunbarth concluded.
They gave orders to the guards nearby, then walked back through Northgate, through the gatehouse with its huge screw and driving mechanisms, through the old delves of Gatekeep and out along the catwalk that led from one end of Anvil’s Echo to the other. All around them, alert eyes watched from murder holes, but they had no concern. The eyes were those of Dunbarth’s elite home guard. Across Anvil’s Echo and a few steps into the great tunnel that was the northern road to the central cities of Thorbardin, Dunbarth Ironthumb stopped suddenly and turned. A dozen yards back, his guard company halted, weapons at the ready.
For a moment, the Hylar leader looked around, then resumed his walk, striding alongside Jeron Redleather,
“What’s the matter?” the Daewar asked. “Why did you stop just then?”
“I don’t know,” Dunbarth said. “I had the feeling, for just a moment, that someone was following us. It seemed as though there was somebody walking right behind us.”
9
Balladine
At break of dawn, the fresh west wind whispering in the valleys and up the slopes of Cloudseeker had a smell of spring about it. Northgate of Thor
bardin had been closed through the night, but now its great screw turned again and the huge, steel-clad stone plug that was the gate receded slowly into the gatehouse, letting the breeze and the morning light enter. Guards stepped out through the great portal, took up positions on the ledge and the ramps, and gazed curiously out across the valley below.
Cookfire smoke rose above the big encampment there, and there was movement everywhere as the strangers from the west had their breakfasts, tended their livestock, and began taking down their travel tents. They were preparing for a march, and the dwarves above, at Northgate, watched curiously as the pace of activity increased its tempo.
From such a distance, the tiny figures by the stream seemed to all be moving in unison, going about their various morning chores, but with a visible rhythm, as though there were music there, and they were all listening to it.
Then the wind shifted a bit, wafting up the slope, and the guards on the ledge heard it, too. The faint sound was that of a single drum, beating softly and steadily, a deep, throbbing rhythm that seemed to touch the dwarven soul. In fascination, the guards on the mountain watched and listened, then snapped to quick attention as a platoon of the elite guard stepped through the open gate into the dawn light.
The new arrivals spread out, looking up the slope above Northgate, down the slope below the wall, and down both climbing ramps. When their surveillance was complete, they spread apart and saluted. Jeron Redleather stepped out into the morning, followed by Dunbarth Ironthumb and old Swing Basto, chieftain of the Theiwar.
Like the guards, the three leaders gazed curiously out across the westward valley, where the strangers were packing their animals and rolling their tents. The smoke that had floated above the encampment was gone, the cookfires extinguished. Obviously, the strangers were ready to move out.
“Is there any sign yet of their leader?” Jeron asked one of the guards, who held a seeing-tube.
“Haven’t seen him,” the dwarf answered. “At least we haven’t seen that red cloak and bright armor. Maybe he changed his clothes.”
“If he did, he could be anywhere over there, and we wouldn’t spot him,” another guard said. “Nobody has had a good look at him yet.”
Dunbarth Ironthumb had wandered to the wall, and stood there now, listening intently. “That drum,” he muttered. “There is something about that drum.…”
“What is it?” Jeron asked. “Is the drum talking?”
“No, it’s just singing. But there is something about that rhythm. It’s like something I should remember, something I should understand. But I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.”
“Maybe your ancestors heard something like it,” Jeron suggested. “You Hylar have always been drum people.”
“Yes, possibly,” the Hylar agreed. Still, though, he listened, feeling as if the faint, haunting beat were talking to him personally. Among the guards, some of the other Hylar had similar expressions of puzzlement.
Even without the seeing-tubes, they could see the people out in the valley scurrying into formation, bright cloaks swirling, bright armor flashing as they made ready to cross the stream. The long line of carts and pack animals was brought forward, and on the flanks, dwarves in bright costume climbed aboard their saddled mounts and wheeled into position. The red-and-gray company assembled, mounted, and rode across the stream, bright water splashing under the hooves of their horses. There was, though, no sign of the red-cloaked figure who had led them when they were first seen.
When they were across, all the rest began to move, crossing rank by rank and group by group to take up their march positions. It looked as though a whole city were on the march.
“There certainly are a lot of them,” Jeron noted as the strangers spread and advanced, heading toward Thorbardin. “Thousands of them.”
“My guards estimate at least nine thousand,” Dunbarth told him. “Maybe more than that. I can’t imagine where they came from. I don’t recall there being anything west of here larger than an occasional Neidar village. But by Reorx, there are as many people down there as there are in all of Hybardin.”
“Speaking of Hybardin,” Jeron said, “do you know whether any of your people might have been prowling my shore last night? The guards didn’t see anyone, but there was a Hylar boat at the dock this morning, and nobody around to account for it.”
“You, too?” Swing Basto asked. “I’ve had a dozen reports of prowlers wandering around Theibardin during the night. And one of my water-pipers swears he turned around and saw the face of Harl Thrustweight looking at him.”
“Too much ale.” Jeron grinned. “Or too much imagination. Harl Thrustweight, you say?”
“No, not Harl Thrustweight. Just his face. There wasn’t any body attached to it.”
“Definitely ale,” Jeron repeated. “Ale, and possibly a troubled conscience. That would account for seeing ghosts.”
“That water-piper had nothing to do with the Hylar chief’s accident,” the old Theiwar blustered. “And even if anybody in my thane did, they’re all long gone now.”
“Hush!” Dunbarth raised a commanding hand. “Listen!”
Out in the valley, the entire caravan of strangers was now across the little stream and approaching at a stately, steady pace. The soft drum still throbbed its haunting rhythm, but it was louder now, as though mufflings had been removed. And another drum had joined its voice, adding a stirring counterpoint to the beat. As they listened, another drum joined in, and another, each adding a new tone and dimension to the growing sound.
“What is that?” Jeron rasped. “Are they saying something? Is it a signal?”
Before Dunbarth could answer, a gray-haired old Hylar hurried onto the ledge, glanced about, then pulled a sheet of rough paper and a graphite stick from his robe. Those around him were a bit surprised to see old Chane Lowen out and about at such an early hour, though as lore-keeper of Thorbardin, he generally came and went as he pleased. Listening intently, the old dwarf began making quick, strange marks on his paper, in time with the drumbeats. Jeron Redleather glanced over the newcomer’s shoulder and scowled. He had never been able to decipher either the signals that the Hylar vibrars sent, or the odd, curled runes by which they were recorded.
“If they’re talking,” Dunbarth answered Jeron’s question, “it’s no drum language I recognize.” He turned to the signal-master. “Chane, do you …?”
“Hush!” Chane rasped, frowning and scribbling.
For long minutes, the chant of the drums grew on the wind, while Chane Lowen scribbled its tones, rhythms, and nuances. Then he pulled an old, yellowed scroll from his robe and unrolled it. For a moment he held both papers before him, comparing them. Then he looked up, his old eyes bright with awe and excitement. “It is!” he said. “It truly is!”
“It is what?” Dunbarth prodded.
“Here, look at this!” Chane thrust the ancient scroll at him. “This has been handed down for centuries. It was among the scrolls of Mistral Thrax. It is from the old times, from the first Hylar. Or before. It is …” He cocked his head, listening. “I’ve studied this, but never heard it before. It has never been played in these mountains. But this scroll is what those drums are singing. Listen! It is truly beautiful.”
“I agree.” Dunbarth nodded. “It’s pretty. But what is it?”
“A drum-song from long ago, from a place very far away. It was the song of summer solstice, there.”
“Summer solstice?” Jeron Redleather cocked a bushy, golden brow. “But it is barely spring.”
“The song was used to call assembly,” the old Hylar continued. “It was the song of festivals and trading time. It was the Call to Balladine.”
“Legends of ancient Thorin,” Dunbarth mused. “Maybe there really was such a place.”
“A trading call,” Jeron studied the throng in the valley suspiciously. “Maybe they truly are here to trade. We’ll see.”
“Traders who march like an army?” Swing Basto growled. “And why would traders
demand to meet with the Council of Thanes? It’s obvious, those people intend to invade Thorbardin.”
“In that case,” Jeron assured him, “we’ll do what we always do. We’ll close the gates until they go away.”
“Do what we always do,” Dunbarth muttered. “Sometimes I wonder …” He didn’t complete the thought, and Jeron Redleather only glanced at him and shrugged. Dunbarth could be moody sometimes, like all Hylar, and Jeron had heard him complain many times that the people of Thorbardin had lived within a shell so long that they were no better than turtles. In a way, Jeron agreed with him, but there wasn’t much that could be done about it. The entire purpose of Thorbardin was its impregnability. The undermountain fortress was created to give the dwarven thanes a secure, unassailable place where they could live safe from intrusion. In Thorbardin, the dwarves were safe from the outside world. Many of them had come, over the centuries, to feel that Thorbardin was the world, and that nothing outside mattered.
Like the Hylar leader, Jeron Redleather often regretted that it was so. People less secure and less secluded, he thought, might find other interests beyond simply eating, sleeping, squabbling, and holding grudges against one another.
Jeron felt a slight touch, as though someone’s cloak had brushed him, and turned, but there was no one there. A moment later one of the guards on the west ramp hissed, started to draw his sword, then looked around in confusion. Dunbarth Ironthumb turned at the sound and called, “What’s the matter over there?”
“Nothing, I guess,” the guard said sheepishly. “I thought I saw something, but I guess I didn’t.”
“Well, what did you think you saw?”
“A face. Right in front of me, looking at me. But then it was gone.”
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