“I know the way,” Hammerhand rasped, then eased his tone slightly as he glanced at the Daewar. “Luster Redleather? Are you Jeron Redleather’s son?”
“You know my father?” The Daewar brightened.
“They call me Hammerhand,” the red-cloak said, ignoring the question. Indicating the old dwarf with the reed basket, he added, “This is Calan Silvertoe.”
Luster nodded at Calan and glanced around at the ten heavily armed warriors flanking and following them. “And these?”
“The Ten,” Hammerhand said. “The one with the crested helm is Tap Tolec. He’s First of the Ten. Are you the only escort they sent? One alone, to keep all of us out of mischief?”
“Hardly.” Luster chuckled. “I have a full hundred waiting just beyond Anvil’s Echo. For your protection, of course. We have a long walk ahead, and the ways can be, ah … hazardous at times. My father wouldn’t want anything to happen to you … at least until he satisfies his curiosity about you.”
“What’s he curious about?”
“Just about everything,” the Daewar said. “Who you are, where you came from, what your purposes are.”
“He knows that,” Hammerhand rasped. “We came to trade goods for steel.”
“Of course.” The young Daewar nodded. “Steel armor, steel weapons …”
“The best smelters and forges in the world are in Thorbardin,” the red-cloak said. “Where else would we go?”
“But after you have your, ah … steel goods,” Luster pressed, “what then? You must have a specific use in mind for all those weapons.”
“And curiosity must run in your family,” Hammerhand noted.
They passed between long rows of closed passages, lining both sides of the big, sky-lighted tunnel. Broad delvings beyond had once been a construction camp for Northgate and were now used as warehouses. Abruptly the tunnel opened out in all directions, and the path became a suspended bridge—a catwalk leading from end to end of a great cavern lined above and on both sides with small, dark openings.
Neither Hammerhand nor Calan Silvertoe more than glanced at the murderous ports and the vertiginous path as they strode out into the opening, but Luster heard whispers among the ten who followed: “So this is Anvil’s Echo. I’ve heard about it.” “I guess you have to see this to really believe it.” “Look at those murder-holes! Do you suppose we’re being watched from those things?”
On impulse, Luster said, over his shoulder, “There are probably a hundred watchers at those ports right now, maybe more. But don’t worry. They’re all Dunbarth Ironthumb’s people. Nobody gets into the defense lairs without his approval.”
“It’s a shame the rest of Thorbardin doesn’t have the discipline of its defenses,” Hammerhand muttered.
“The Hylar would agree with you on that score.” Luster grinned. “You look like a Hylar, yourself. Are you?”
“I’m Hammerhand,” the red-cloak rumbled. “That’s all I am, at least for now.”
Unabashed, the young Daewar said, “Chane Lowen says you look like Colin Stonetooth.”
“He probably does,” Calan Silvertoe rasped, then went silent at a glance from his leader.
The catwalk ended, the sun-tunnel-lighted way began again, and the party marched between the waiting ranks of a hundred dwarven soldiers, standing at attention. As they passed, the guards fell in around and behind them, ringing them closely. With a suspicious glare at the soldiers, Tap Tolec muttered orders, and the Ten closed ranks around their leader and the two walking with him. Their frowns made it clear to the guards that they were to keep their distance from Hammerhand. Responding to their glares, some of the Thorbardin guards pressed closer, tauntingly. Then one of them yelped and backed off, stooping to rub his ankle.
“What happened?” one of his companions asked.
“One of these outsiders kicked me on the shin,” the injured one snapped.
Hammerhand swung around, stopping the procession. He glanced at Tap Tolec, then from face to face of his other nine bodyguards. All of them shook their heads. “Nobody kicked your soldier,” Hammerhand told Luster. “If any of them had, he’d be more than just bruised.” Imperiously, he turned again and strode on, the double ring of escorts reforming around him.
Luster Redleather’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Your people look after you,” he noted.
Hammerhand didn’t respond, but Calan Silvertoe said, “The Ten are the chosen of the Chosen Ones. Your soldiers would be well advised to treat them with respect.”
“My soldiers—a hundred of Thorbardin’s best?” Luster asked, grinning.
“If they’re your best, then you don’t want to lose them,” Hammerhand said quietly. “If they crowd my people, what happens to them is their fault. The Ten don’t like being crowded.”
With a wave of his hand, Luster Redleather signaled his hundred, who eased away from the compact group of warriors, giving them respect and a bit more room. From somewhere on the left flank came an angry whisper: “One of them did kick me! I don’t know who, but somebody did.”
After a half-hour’s walk, the big tunnel they were following—called the Second Road—bent sharply to the left, and carved runes in the stone wall said that Theibardin—first of the Theiwar cities—lay ahead. The Thorbardin guards had now formed a complete circle around the visitors, and marched with eyes alert and shields high. A hundred yards past the turn, several dozen shadowy figures suddenly darted from a side-delve, shouting a babble of taunts and insults. Several of them hurled stones at the approaching company. The leading Thorbardin guards deflected the stones casually with their shields and drew hand weapons. With more taunts and insults, the mob of attackers turned and ran, disappearing around a bend in the distance.
“Somebody doesn’t like us here,” Calan Silvertoe drawled.
“It isn’t you,” Luster Redleather assured his guests. “It’s us. A lot of people here don’t like the Home Guards. We’ve doubled the patrols since the last riots and spoiled a lot of people’s fun.”
“This is a riot zone?” Calan asked.
“Sometimes I think all of Thorbardin is a riot zone,” Luster told him sadly. “Every city in the cavern has had trouble of one kind or another during the past few decades … except maybe the Hylar city. The Hylar don’t usually get involved in the feuds. But everywhere else, there’s always somebody ready to lead a gang against somebody else.”
“What do they fight about?” one of the Ten asked.
“Anything and everything.” Luster shrugged. “Who knows? My father says the darkest quality of dwarven nature is that we never forget a slight or forgive a grudge. And, of course, in Thorbardin we’ve had a lot of generations to accumulate grudges.”
“And nothing better to do than feud?” Calan asked.
“For some among us, no. There isn’t enough real work to keep everybody busy.”
“There should be,” Hammerhand muttered. “There would be, if Thorbardin hadn’t forgotten why it’s here.”
Luster glanced at him, curious about the smoldering anger in the stranger’s voice, an anger that seemed to deepen with every step into the cavern realm. “What does that mean?”
“That’s what I came to talk to the council about,” the red-cloak said, his brow furrowed and stormy beneath his polished helm.
The delves of Theibardin spread around them then, and they turned at a wide road that led to the central cavern of Thorbardin. Everywhere, dwarves by the hundreds turned out to watch them pass. Most of the dwarves here were Theiwar, identifiable by their smoke-brown hair and beards, and the wide shoulders and long arms that were characteristic of their clan. But many among them were obviously of mixed blood, with features that came from Daewar, Daergar, Hylar, or Klar lineage.
Generations of intermarriage among the thanes had in many ways strengthened the dwarves of Thorbardin. But it also had started its share of feuds.
Most of the people they passed seemed to harbor no hostility, only curiosity. But here and there t
hey heard taunts and catcalls, and a few stones clanged off the shields of the Home Guards. Then a fist-sized stone from aside and above flew over the raised shield of a guard, straight at Hammerhand.
As casually as the Thorbardin guards had, he deflected the stone with his shield. But even as the missile clattered away, he sensed furious movement directly behind him and heard the unmistakable hum of a sling. He spun around in time to see a small hand dart out of the group, expertly unleashing a woven sling. Its stone whistled through the air, entered a shadowed, open second-level doorway, and a distinct thud was heard. A second later a dwarf staggered into sight there, clung to the doorway for an instant, blood flowing down his face, then toppled forward and fell to the pavement below.
With an oath, Hammerhand lunged and grabbed the small hand with the sling. The hand seemed to be connected to nothing, but as he grabbed it a pretty face appeared, turning toward him.
Swearing beneath his breath, Hammerhand gripped empty-seeming air beside the face and pulled away the emptiness. All around, Thorbardin guards gasped as a complete person was revealed—a startlingly pretty dwarf girl, who returned the red-cloak’s angry glare with stubborn eyes and a set, determined chin. “You see?” she snapped at him. “It’s a good thing I came along. That person tried to stone you.”
Nearby, one of the guards knelt beside the fallen dwarf, then stood and shrugged. “He’s dead,” he called. “His head’s cracked open.”
“Well, well, well,” Luster Redleather declared with open admiration, staring at the girl who was still glaring at Hammerhand. “And who have we here?”
“Her name is Helta Graywood,” Hammerhand growled. “Among other things, she is a nuisance.”
Tearing his fascinated eyes from the girl, Luster peered at the red-cloak’s dangling hand. It seemed to contain nothing, but some of the fingers had disappeared. “Magic!” the Daewar muttered. “What is it? A cloak of some kind?”
“An elf made it,” Calan Silvertoe admitted.
“I see,” Luster said, his blue eyes alight. “Ah, yes. That accounts for the rumors from the other night. We were reconnoitered, it seems. And by Hammerhand himself.”
“I’ve been away from Thorbardin for years,” Hammerhand replied. “I decided to have a look around, privately.”
“You’ve been away—” Luster started, then grinned and planted his fists on his hips. “My father is right, then. You are Derkin Winterseed!”
“I was,” Hammerhand admitted. “But my people gave me a new name.”
“Derkin Hammerhand,” Luster said. “It’s a good name. But why all the mystery? As Harl Thrustweight’s son, you could just have walked in openly. You’re a citizen.”
“I don’t care to be a citizen of Thorbardin,” Derkin rasped.
“Why not?”
“That’s what I will speak to the council about. If we can proceed to the council hall without further interruption.”
“The dead Theiwar is one of the local troublemakers,” one of the Home Guards reported. “If she hadn’t brained him, someone else would have, sooner or later.”
“Then there are no claims or challenges?” Luster asked.
The guard shook his head. “None stated.”
“In that case, let’s get going.” Luster swept his arm in a courtly gesture, bowing slightly to Helta Graywood. “The rest of the walk will be far more pleasant, with such attractive—such visibly attractive—company.”
A bright smile lit the girl’s face. “Thank you,” she said, curtsying. Then the smile was replaced by a frown as Derkin Hammerhand strode away.
11
The Kal-Thax Mandate
The Great Hall of Audience of Thorbardin, located in the southern reaches of the fortress complex, was packed to capacity when Derkin Hammerhand arrived there. Word had spread quickly of the impending meeting of the Council of Thanes—a meeting demanded by the strangers from the wilderness—and it looked as though half the dwarves in Thorbardin had decided to attend. Tens of thousands of people packed the rising tiers of cut stone seats that ringed the big, circular cavern, and it sounded as though they were all talking at once. The echoes of their voices could be heard a quarter-mile away in the wide concourse of the Ninth Road tunnel.
But when Luster Redleather and his Home Guards escorted their charges into the great chamber, the place went almost silent.
Only a few in Thorbardin had actually gone to Northgate to see the army of strangers now camped in the meadows beyond, but everybody had heard about them—about the music of their drums, the goods they brought to trade, and about the mysterious leader of the outsiders who resembled an ancient Hylar chieftain and wore the armor of a long-ago time. Speculation was rampant as to whether the strangers beyond Northgate were here just to trade, or also to invade.
Now the one called Hammerhand was here, in Thorbardin, and most of the dwarves in the undermountain realm waited curiously to hear what he had to say.
Runners had preceded them into the Great Hall, and Derkin Hammerhand assumed that those waiting—at least the thane leaders and officials gathered on the raised dais in the center of the cavern—now knew everything that Luster Redleather knew about him, including his full name. The suspicion was confirmed by whispers that reached his ears as he led his group down a sloping aisle, between packed rows of waiting dwarves. “Derkin,” someone whispered. “He is Derkin, the son of Harl Thrustweight.”
Followed by Helta Graywood and Calan Silvertoe, and flanked by the Ten, Derkin strode to the dais and stepped up on it, then scanned the crowd waiting there with thoughtful eyes. Vaguely, he recalled Dunbarth Ironthumb of the Hylar, who had once been Captain of Guards under old Harl. The rest he had never seen, but he knew who they were. The shrewd-eyed, middle-aged Daewar with the trade wardens behind him obviously was Jeron Redleather. The suspicious-looking old Theiwar scowling at him from his council seat would be Swing Basto. Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar removed his face mask as a courtesy, letting the stranger see his features, then donned it again, squinting in the light of the chamber’s overhead sun-tunnel and reflectors.
The bushy, unruly hair and beard of the next chief identified him as Klar, the chieftain Trom Thule. The sixth and seventh seats were vacant. Nobody knew where to find the bumbling little Grimble I, Highbulp of Thane Aghar, and many years had passed since any Neidar had met with the council.
Derkin studied them one by one, then nodded and stepped to the center of the dais. “I am called Hammerhand,” he told them. “My people call themselves the Chosen Ones.”
Jeron Redleather bowed slightly, welcoming the newcomer, then glanced at those with him. He had already heard—from his son’s guards—of the beauty of the dwarf girl with Hammerhand, but his eyes widened when he looked at the old one-arm with the reed basket. “I know you,” he said. “You are Calan. You left Thorbardin long ago, some said to live among elves.”
“Your memory is excellent, Sire.” Calan Silvertoe grinned. “That was at least eighty years ago.”
“And now you return, with another who preferred outside ways to our own.” Jeron shifted his gaze back to the red-cloaked warrior. “My son tells me that you are indeed Derkin Winterseed, the son of a Hylar chieftain.”
“I am called Derkin Hammerhand now,” Derkin said. “The name pleases me. My people chose it.”
“And who are your people?” Dunbarth Ironthumb asked. “Where do they come from?”
“They call themselves the Chosen Ones,” Derkin repeated.
Frowning, Swing Basto rumbled, “Chosen ones? Who chose them?”
“I did,” Derkin said. “And as to where we are from, we are from Kal-Thax.”
“Kal-Thax is here,” the Klar chieftain pointed out. “Kal-Thax is our land.”
“It used to be,” Derkin said. “Until Thorbardin abandoned it. Most of my people have been Neidar. Many of them come now from the same cells and slave pens as I come from—slave quarters owned by the human invaders that you people have not troubled yourselves to
drive away.”
Angry voices were raised in the vast audience, and others joined them. The babble became a roar that died slowly as Jeron Redleather raised a commanding hand. All over the great chamber, companies of Home Guards spread and positioned themselves, ready to enforce order if necessary.
“This person is our guest!” the Daewar chieftain announced, his voice carrying through the Great Hall. “As he is our guest at this assembly of the thanes, it is our right to question him, but it is also his right to speak freely and be heard.”
“So question him!” a voice called from somewhere in the crowd. “Why is he here? What does he want?”
“Those are fair questions,” Jeron conceded, nodding at Derkin.
“We are here for two reasons,” Derkin continued. “The first is to trade. Your traders,” he indicated the trade wardens standing behind Jeron, “have inspected our goods and heard what we want in exchange.”
“Mostly steel implements,” Jeron said.
“Implements?” Derkin raised an eyebrow, his eyes piercing the Daewar chieftain. “Call them what they are. We want weapons. Good weapons crafted from good dwarven steel.”
“Weapons, then,” Jeron conceded.
“Provided you have the steel to make them,” Derkin added. “I saw no smelter glows at the Shaft of Reorx.”
“We have steel,” Dunbarth Ironthumb growled. “We have excellent stockpiles of steel.”
“Good for you,” Derkin drawled ironically. “Then we will make trade?”
“What do you want the weapons for?” Swing Basto demanded.
“To wage war against the human legions who have invaded our land.”
The Swordsheath Scroll Page 13
