“Ghosts,” Jeron Redleather muttered.
Within an hour, the approaching throng of strangers was less than a mile away, and well into the meadowed valley between the slopes of Cloudseeker and Sky’s End peaks. A growing crowd had gathered on the Northgate ledge, watching the strangers curiously and listening to the haunting music of the drums. The sun was high now, intensifying the bright colors of the panoply below, and the watchers could see things they had not seen before. Among the mounted units, only one dwarf in three or four wore metal armor, and the armor—though bright and well kept—was a motley assortment of types and designs, as though gathered from bazaars or collected on battlefields.
All of the strange dwarves, even the women and children among them, carried weapons. But some of their weapons were crudely crafted, as though made in haste, and many looked to be of human or elven design. “They have rough iron, but not much good steel,” Jeron Redleather noted. “Wherever they come from, their weavers and tanners have had materials to work with, but their metalworkers have had to settle for what they could find.” He turned to the warden of trade. “Take note, Agate. Many of those pack animals carry bales of fine furs, and I’d wager those carts have some excellent fabrics in them.”
“They’ve been scavenging, by the look of some of their metals,” Dunbarth Ironthumb added. “A lot of them carry human blades.”
Still, with their fine horses and bright cloaks, the strange dwarves had a formidable look about them, purposeful and determined.
As the assembly came even nearer, one of the riders in the first unit—the red-and-grays—spurred his mount and galloped ahead, leading a spare saddled horse. The second animal was finely outfitted, with a fine dwarven saddle, silver-accented leathers and headstall, and a skirt of fine steel chain, all embellished by patterns of bright red fabric.
“That’s the horse their leader was riding when we first saw them,” a guard said.
“But where is their leader?” Dunbarth muttered.
Then, at the ledge wall, someone said, “Look!” and eyes turned downward and to the left. At the foot of the west ramp was a scarlet-cloaked dwarf whose dark hair glinted in the sunlight as he strode down the slope.
The lone rider sped toward him, but reined in when he raised his hand. Without looking back, the red-cloak stepped to the riderless horse, took its reins, and climbed up on its back, rolling up the sling-ladder behind him and snugging it to his saddle. Loosing thongs on the pommel, he released a slung shield, helmet, and hammer, and donned them. With the other rider following, he rode out into the meadow, turned his mount full around, and raised his arm again. Instantly, in the approaching throng, the drums ceased their song, and a single drum beat a brief, complex tattoo.
“They say they will be ready to receive our traders by noon,” Chane Lowen translated so all those on the ledge could hear. “They also say the Council of Thanes is to be assembled tomorrow.”
“Like rust!” Swing Basto spat. “Dunbarth, let your drummers tell them that the Council of Thanes meets only in the Great Hall of Thorbardin, not outside.”
At a nod from Dunbarth, two drummers stepped forward and sent the message. A moment later, the strange drums responded. “Hammerhand would have it no other way,” they said.
“Arrogance!” the Theiwar chieftain snapped when the signal was translated. “I say we close the gate, and to corruption with these intruders!”
Before anyone could answer, one of the guards on the ramp shouted, “That’s him! That’s the face I saw before me!” The guard had found a seeing-tube and was peering through it at the scarlet-cloaked rider down in the meadow.
Dunbarth Ironthumb took a tube from his nearest guard and looked through it. The face of the newcomer below turned toward him, and he squinted. Strong, blunt features framed a pair of dark, brooding eyes that seemed to be looking directly at him. Dark, wavy hair fell below a finely crafted helmet, and a trimmed, backswept beard parted to reveal strong, white teeth in a wide, resolute mouth.
Dunbarth swore aloud, and pressed the tube to his eye. In some ways, the face below resembled the long-dead chieftain of the Hylar, Harl Thrustweight. The set of the high cheekbones, the level gaze of those commanding eyes. “I feel I should know him!” Dunbarth rasped, handing the seeing-tube to Jeron Redleather. “Look! Who do you see?”
The Daewar peered, then turned, frowning. “Who else but a son could so resemble a father?” he said thoughtfully.
“Are you suggesting that is Harl’s son, Derkin?” Dunbarth demanded.
The Daewar peered again, muttering. “I don’t know,” he conceded. “There is a resemblance. And yet … that is surely not the Derkin I remember.”
Without ceremony, old Chane Lowen pushed forward, elbowing chieftains aside, and wrested the seeing-tube from Jeron’s hand. Leaning against the ledge wall, he sighted through the tube, then turned to the rest of them. “I have seen that face,” he said slowly. “There is an old painting in the deepest archives in Hybardin. The painting is as old as Thorbardin itself. And the face in the painting is that face down there.”
“Are you saying that isn’t Harl Thrustweight’s lost son?” Dunbarth demanded.
“I vaguely recall Derkin Winterseed,” the old lore-keeper said. “He was a reclusive youth, quiet and given to moods.”
“Moods?” Jeron Redleather rasped. “As I heard it, Derkin had only two ways of associating with people—either ignore them, or insult them. It was a wonder somebody didn’t brain him. I don’t think even his father liked him very much. Personally, though, I don’t think I ever met him.”
“He wasn’t around much,” Chane Lowen said, searching his memory. “Derkin was an odd one. He never seemed a Neidar, but he was always going off to outside places. He didn’t like Thorbardin and made that clear. Then, the last time he left—many years ago—he just never came back.” Chane half-turned, pointing toward the meadow. “If that person down there was ever Derkin Winterseed, he isn’t anymore. See his movements. That person commands and leads. Derkin would never have led anyone.”
“The old painting in the archives,” Dunbarth pressed. “Whose face is in it?”
“Colin Stonetooth,” Chane said. “The first chieftain of the Hylar. The dwarf who united the thanes to build Thorbardin. In the painting, he is much older, but I swear, that is his face down there.”
On the meadow below Northgate, a vast encampment grew. Banners fluttered above brightly colored pavilions, surrounded by stalls and displays of wares. Wagons and carts disgorged bolts of bright fabric, big coils of hemp rope, and oiled leather weaves; intricately patterned carpets, arrays of fine, hand-carved furniture and wooden fixtures; bits of sculpture, tapestries, and paintings done in many styles and fashions; bundles of herbs, spices, and pots of exotic oils; dyes and essences; casks of prized white salt, dried fruits, and wild grains; myriad bits of elvenware; bales of cured pelts and tanned hides—a wealth of goods such as Jeron Redleather’s Daewar traders had not seen since the wars in Ergoth had disrupted so many of the trade routes.
“He certainly knows his goods,” a trader commented, watching from above as the red-cloaked figure called Hammerhand directed the placement of wares and displays on the valley floor.
“He knows what is prized in Thorbardin,” another agreed. “He knows what is hard to get here. Look at those western timbers! And the furs! Half of Thorbardin will be trying to outbid the other half for those.”
“When we get them,” the first trader pointed out.
“Oh, we’ll get them, all right. The only question is, what will we have to give in trade?”
At midday, the drums sang again, and dozens of Daewar traders, followed by several hundred merchants from the various cities within Thorbardin, made their way down the ramps, accompanied by a squad of armed guards.
The guards were for display only, of course, and everyone knew it. With thousands of armed strangers awaiting the contingent below, the traders and their followers would have no chance at all if
hostilities broke out. But such was always the life of traders and merchants. To acquire goods, they must go to where the goods were, barter for them, and take the risk. Further, there was something in the song of the drums, muted now but still beating, that was reassuring. This is an occasion to trade, they seemed to say, a time to haggle, but not to quarrel … a time to do business, not to do violence.
Throughout the afternoon, hundreds of dwarves from Thorbardin wandered about the valley camp, inspecting goods and setting prices, making lists and copious notes. At evening, as the sun of Krynn sat upon the western ranges, they gathered with their guards and returned up the ramps to Northgate to disappear inside. Guards saw them safely in, then wheeled to follow them, and the great plug of Northgate closed as the last rays of sunlight crept up the high peaks.
Inside, the merchants wandered off toward their cities and their shops, each accompanied by his band of hired armsmen. No street, way, or tunnel in Thorbardin could be considered entirely safe. Ambushers often lurked in shadows, waiting for a chance to attack some feud-enemy or anyone else of that enemy’s clan.
The appointed traders hurried to where Jeron Redleather awaited their reports. A delved chamber near Northgate that usually served as a storage barn had been hastily refurnished the night before as a situational headquarters.
The Daewar leader generally was in charge of all matters involving commerce, just as the Hylar leader was conceded to be the person in charge of policing and defense. Surprisingly, though, the traders found almost the entire Council of Thanes awaiting them. Dunbarth Ironthumb of the Hylar was there, as were Swing Basto of the Theiwar, Trom Thule of the Klar, and even Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar. The only missing member of the Council was Grimble I, Highbulp of Clan Aghar, but that was no surprise. Not for a long time had anyone seen the gully dwarf leader or, for that matter, any of his tribe. During unsettled times, the Aghar tended to disappear.
The traders presented their lists and reports to the assembled leaders. The wares brought by the strangers were indeed valuable and would greatly benefit Thorbardin. And what the strangers demanded in trade was steel.
“Steel?” Swing Basto rasped. “Just … steel?”
“Forged steel,” the warden of trade noted, poring over notes and enscrollments. “They cite some types of tools and utensils that they will accept, but mostly they ask for armor and weapons. Hammers, axes, swords, knives, darts, javelin-points, shields, helms, a wide assortment of armor—”
“As we suspected,” Jeron Redleather interrupted. “Those people have not had access to smelters or to the fine forges and metalshops we have here.”
“But they certainly know about us,” Dunbarth pointed out. “They seem to know exactly what goods we most need and exactly what we can best produce for trade. They are very familiar with Thorbardin.”
“Their leader is.” Jeron nodded. “That must be your old chieftain’s son, the one who disappeared. Derkin. Who else could it be?”
“One of our people heard the name Derkin mentioned,” a trader offered. “But the name that is most commonly used for their leader is Hammerhand.”
“Tell us the rest,” Jeron said, leaning forward, bright-eyed. In addition to being crafty merchants, his corps of traders were among the best spies in the dwarven realm, or maybe in the world.
The answer disappointed him though. “That’s about all there is.” The chief trader shrugged. “They showed us what they offer, told us what they want, and named their leader. Hammerhand. By observation, we learned that there are at least nine thousand in their party, and many carry healed battle wounds. They have seen combat. Also, some carry brands—the way humans sometimes mark slaves—and the marks of whips. Most of them speak with a Neidar accent, though the accents vary. They seem to be from all over.”
“Nomadic dwarves?” Trom Thule muttered.
“They aren’t nomads.” The trader corrected him. “They carry no looms, anvils, or hearth-irons. That—and the grain, leathers, and woodcrafts they bring—indicates that they have a permanent base somewhere. There are women among them, as well, but we saw very few children.
“They have choice leathers, fine fabrics, and excellent wooden instruments, but the metal goods of their own crafting are of crude iron, copper, bronze, and brass. Everything we saw made of steel was obviously of human crafting, modified to suit dwarves.
“With one exception,” another trader reminded him.
“Oh, yes. One exception. Their leader’s armor—Hammerhand’s—is of dwarven craft, and of the finest quality … though its design is very old.” The chief trader paused, then shrugged. “We weren’t able to get much information beyond that. I’ve never seen such closemouthed people in my life.”
A runner from the gatehouse appeared at the door of the chamber, looked inside, then entered. “The drums,” he said, “those drums in the valley, they said bring the message here.”
“Here?” Dunbarth frowned. “To this chamber?”
“Aye.” The runner nodded. “Those drums said to come to this chamber, and tell the Council of Thanes to assemble tomorrow in the Great Hall, to meet with Hammerhand.”
“Rust!” Jeron Redleather scowled. “Now how would those people out there know exactly where we would be, right now?”
“The drums said to say,” the runner said, “that Hammerhand will speak with you tomorrow.”
The assembled chiefs exchanged glances. “Let a signal be returned then,” Dunbarth said. “Say that Hammerhand may enter Thorbardin at dawn.”
“But only with ceremonial escort,” Swing Basto grumped. “We don’t want a lot of strangers running loose in Thorbardin.”
“I shall assign the best guards to them,” Dunbarth agreed, annoyed as usual by the Theiwar’s sullen manner. “Jeron, your son’s company is available. I’ll assign them.”
10
Thorbardin
Drums thundered at first dawn, and the dwarf called Hammerhand strode up the west ramp of Northgate with his “ceremonial” escort—ten burly, battle-hardened veterans in red-and-gray draped armor, all carrying sturdy shields and good swords that bore the nicks and scratches of enthusiastic use, and all with axes slung at their shoulders. The twelfth member of the group was an old, one-armed dwarf in leathers and linens. A reed basket slung from his shoulder bulged with rolled scrolls, and dagger hilts were visible at his belted kilt, the tops of both his boots, and the collar of his gray cape.
With the others following closely, the scarlet-cloaked Hammerhand strode along the gateway’s wide, walled ledge to the very center of the massive, steel-clad gate. The great plug, a solid wall of stone sheathed in time-darkened steel, was patterned all over its surface with the small dents, scratches, and tool marks of those who, over the centuries, had tried in vain to get through it. Like its twin on the south face of the mountain, many miles away, Northgate was a monument to the stubborn refusal of the mountain dwarves to be troubled by outsiders.
The one-armed old dwarf peered closely at the mute steel of the gate and pursed his lips, an expression that made his beard stand out before his face. “I haven’t seen this gate in eighty years,” he noted, “but it hasn’t changed. Its face reads like a testament to the futility of invasion.”
“More like a monument to the stone-headed stubbornness of those within,” Hammerhand growled. Loosing his hammer-loop from a powerful shoulder, he paused, glancing at the eastern sky. “Has that dratted girl been found yet, Calan?”
“Not yet.” The graybeard shook his head. “Nobody’s seen her since yesterday, right after you came back from your scouting.” He lowered his voice, stepping close. “You realize she saw you put away that invisibility cloak, don’t you? She watches you every minute, it seems. It’s a wonder you have any secrets from her at all.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Hammerhand growled. “Well, she’s probably hiding somewhere, pouting. Maybe I should have been a bit gentler yesterday when I told her she couldn’t come with us this morning.”
“She certainly has a mind of her own,” Calan agreed. As the younger dwarf had done before, he glanced at the eastern sky. Patterns of dawn light painted the distant clouds. The sun would be up soon. “It’s full dawn,” he noted. “Time to go calling.”
Hammerhand nodded. Raising his hammer, he delivered a single, imperious blow to the time-darkened surface of the huge gate, then stepped back. Several seconds passed, then the gate grated in its frame and slid slowly inward, backing away from those waiting on the ledge. It cleared several feet of steel framing, then receded a few inches farther and stopped. From both sides, eyes peered through the crack. A suspicious voice called, “Identify yourself!”
Without looking aside, the red-cloak stepped forward and struck the stopped gate another ringing blow. “I’m Hammerhand!” he stated, his voice deep, commanding, and loud enough to be heard by anyone in the gatehouse beyond. “I come to meet with the Council of Thanes. Open up!”
“How do we know you’re him?” the same voice queried, sounding argumentative.
The old, one-armed dwarf stepped up beside Hammerhand to growl, “Open this gate or we’ll make a new gate of our own! We’re coming in.”
From the crack at the other side of the gate, another voice—a voice of authority—commanded, “Open the berusted gate, you imbeciles! We’ve got our orders, and that’s the one we’re supposed to let in.”
“The rest of ’em, too?” the first voice asked suspiciously.
“Stop arguing and open the gate! It’s all right!”
There was muttering from the cracks, then the huge gate began moving again, receding into its shadowed gatehouse. The dwarves on the ledge waited in stony silence until it was fully open, withdrawn twenty feet into its housing. Then the one with the scarlet cloak put away his hammer, growled an ironic “Thank you,” and stepped forward, followed by his escorts.
Within the gatehouse, they filed around the massive gate, some of them pausing momentarily to gape at the sheer size of the steel-sheathed stone plug and the huge, milled auger behind it. But the one called Hammerhand and the old one-arm barely glanced at the huge mechanics of the gatehouse and strode on, while the rest hurried to follow. Gatekeepers and surly-looking guards stepped back as they passed, and a gold-bearded young Daewar with the insignia of a Home Guards officer fell into step beside Hammerhand. “I’m Luster,” he said amiably. “Luster Redleather. I’ll show you the way to the Great Hall.”
The Swordsheath Scroll Page 12
