They used winches and wedges, levers and slings, and all manner of other tools, in ways he had never seen such things used. And while some among them were more skilled than others at the cutting or drilling or setting of stone, he had the impression that any one of them at random could have done the job of any other.
“They work as though they were born with tools in their hands,” he remarked to Despaxas as the Tharkas Wall towered overhead, growing tier by tier.
“They almost were,” the elf said casually. “It is the manner of dwarves. It is said that a dwarf can climb before he can walk, hew stone before he can talk, and delve before he’s out of his swaddling.”
“They’re an amazing people,” Tuft allowed. “But can they use their weapons?”
“You will see soon enough,” the elf answered. “To a dwarf, a weapon is just another tool. The only difference is in its application.”
Now, on the eleventh day of the project, as the last of the stones salvaged from Lord Kane’s outpost were hauled upward to be set into place, Tuft stood back to look at the huge construct. The wall was butted into solid stone on each side of the pass, completely filling it from side to side. Stout battlements of carved stone lined its top, protecting a bastion that could be reached by ramps on the south face. The north face of the wall, facing toward Klanath, was solid, almost seamless stone. And low in its center was a single, small opening, tall and narrow, sealed by a gate that looked as solid and massive as the wall itself.
Not an impassable obstacle, the Cobar decided as he studied the wall. Determined men equipped with grapples and lines could scale its north face and get across. But with a good defense on that bastion top, the price of such an attack would be fearsome.
And it had been built in eleven days! Such a project would have taken human craftsmen half a year to complete.
With the wall in place, most of the Chosen Ones moved their camp into the pass, just behind their barricade. And now Tuft saw the builders of the wall become soldiers of Kal-Thax. Putting away their stoneworking tools, the dwarves donned exquisite steel armor and clothing of a variety of bright colors. Fine, dwarven steel weapons were unwrapped, brought out, and buckled or strapped into place. Within a day after the completion of the stone wall, the Cobar found himself surrounded by thousands of stubby, helmed warriors, most of whom looked as fierce and formidable as Derkin Hammerhand himself.
Another thing he noted then, about the dwarves. A hundred pounds or so of steel plate, helmet, slung shield, and weaponry was no burden to a sturdy dwarf. In full battle attire, each dwarf appeared as comfortable and as nimble as though he were clothed only in kilt and smock. Afoot or on horseback, the short, sturdy warriors seemed as at home in armor as though it were part of them.
Tuft was admiring the throngs around him when a cold, deep voice asked, “What are you grinning at, human? Do you find my people funny?”
Derkin was beside him, hands on his hips, and there was no humor in his wide-set, thoughtful eyes.
“Not at all,” Tuft hastened to reply. “Quite the opposite. I was thinking how fierce your people seem, and how colorful.”
“Then what were you grinning about?”
The Cobar paused, then pointed at a group of two or three dozen armored dwarves strolling past. “Even fully armored, your dwarves make no racket. My people have fought the emperor’s armies for years now, and our ears are an advantage. When those churls put on armor, they clank so that one can hear them a quarter mile away.”
“If you find that amusing, you’ll have plenty of entertainment soon,” Derkin said, turning away. “The drums spoke this morning. That human battalion that left Tharkas to chase your raiders has returned to Klanath. They’ll be on their way here shortly.” As though in afterthought, he glanced back at the man, and now he was grinning, too. “They’re short a few men, by my sentinels’ count. And they’re short a lot of horses.”
It was the following morning when soldiers of the empire appeared in Tharkas Pass. Remounted and reprovisioned—and thoroughly chastened by Lord Kane himself—Commander Tulien Gart led his Third Battalion out of Klanath, heading for the outpost they had left nearly two weeks before. Above them on the peaks, muted thunders rolled, then died away, and soldiers in the ranks craned their necks, looking upward. But there was nothing there to see.
Entering the pass, the battalion strung itself out, riding at an easy pace, expecting no surprises. Two miles into the gap, though, an outrider swung his mount around and galloped back to salute his commander. “There’s something in the pass, sir. I can’t tell what it is,” he reported.
Within a quarter-mile they could all see the something, and they paused, peering. “What is that?” Tulien Gart demanded. “First platoon, go forward and see what that thing is!”
About thirty riders spurred their mounts and trotted away up the pass. For long minutes the rest of the battalion waited, then a rider came toward them, moving fast. Almost losing his seat as he skidded his horse to a haunch-down halt, he snapped a quick, wide-eyed salute and said, “That thing is a wall, sir! A great big stone wall. It blocks the whole pass, and someone on top of it told us to go away and never come back.”
“Who told you that?” the commander rasped. “Who was it on that wall?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The soldier shook his head. “The rest of the platoon went ahead for a better look, but the lieutenant sent me to report.”
“A wall!” Tulien Gart muttered. “Now what?” Impatiently, he signaled and spurred his mount, and the entire battalion trotted forward behind him.
It was indeed a wall—a high, wide wall of solid stone, with battlements at its crest and a single, narrow door that was firmly closed. Just below the wall, the first platoon was spread out, still mounted, with shields and swords at hand. As he neared the wall, Gart could hear his lieutenant shouting, “… can’t put a blasted wall in this pass without Lord Kane’s orders! Who do you people think you are?”
“We know exactly who we are!” a deep, resonant voice answered from above. “And we know who you are, too! Now go away!”
With an oath, Tulien Gart reined his mount in beside the lieutenant’s and demanded, “Who is that up there?” When the lieutenant shrugged, Gart straightened himself in his saddle and cupped his hands. “You on the wall!” he demanded. “Identify yourselves at once! Who are you?”
A silhouette moved above, a polished helmet glinted in the light, and a deep voice called back, “Who’s asking?”
“I am Tulien Gart!” Gart shouted. “In command of this battalion, in service to the Lord Sakar Kane, Prince of Klanath by order of Our Illustrious Emperor Quivalin Soth the Fifth! Now, who are you, and why are you here?”
“I’m called Hammerhand!” the deep voice responded, sounding unimpressed. “I’m here because I choose to be! This is the border of Kal-Thax, and as of now the border is closed! So go away!”
“Border of what?” Gart shouted. “This land is the fief of Lord Kane! He owns it!”
“No, he doesn’t,” the deep voice assured him casually. “It’s ours.”
From the rear of the battalion column came a muttering that traveled forward. A lieutenant turned, listened, and wheeled toward his commander. “Sir,” he said, “the men farther back can see better. They say those are dwarves up there.”
“That’s right,” the voice from above called. “We’re dwarves. This wall marks the boundary of Kal-Thax. Kal-thax is dwarven land. It has always been ours, and it always will be. It begins right here, at this wall. Now, for the last time, turn around and go away!”
Muttering a curse, Tulien Gart shaded his eyes against the bright sky. Now there were many helmed heads visible between the stone battlements above, and he could see the bristle of weapons. Turning in his saddle, he called, “Archers forward!”
Immediately, a company of mounted bowmen advanced at his bidding. Above, the deep voice rang out, cold and deadly. “Be careful, Commander Gart! You are about to make a serious mistake!”
Ignoring the dwarf above, Gart commanded, “Archers! Clear that wall!”
In unison, a hundred bows were raised, drawn, and released, and a hundred deadly arrows hurtled upward. But where the silhouettes of heads had been, there were now bright shields. Arrows clattered, shattered, and caromed away. Then the shields dropped from sight, and in their place were pairs of dwarves, drawing aim on those below. Slings whirred and spat, crossbows thudded, and panic erupted among the archers. Dozens fell from their saddles, pierced or brained, and the rest became a melee of stamping, wheeling, bucking horses and men, shouldering one another in their haste to back away. More men and several horses went down under trampling hooves.
Through it all, Tulien Gart held his reins and his ground, his angry eyes locked on the figure above, the one who called himself Hammerhand. That one, he noticed, had not moved either. But now the deep, cold voice came again, and Gart felt the impact of shadowed eyes beneath a glistening helm—eyes that he knew were locked on his own. “Hear the words of Hammerhand, human!” the voice thundered. “Hear me well, and tell your master what I have said! At this point, Kal-Thax begins! From this day, Kal-Thax is closed to you and your kind! Kal-Thax belongs to dwarves, not humans!
“If you leave us alone, we will leave you alone! But if you attack—as you have just learned—we will respond! Now go away! Go, and don’t come back!”
Reluctantly, Tulien Gart turned his mount and led a retreat, but only for a few hundred yards. Once beyond the range of slings and crossbows, he halted the battalion and dismounted. A few minutes passed, then two squads of humans approached the wall again, this time on foot and carrying no bows. Instead, they carried stretchers. Almost timidly, expecting death at any minute, the men neared the wall and began collecting their wounded and dead. But the dwarves above launched no volleys. They only watched.
On the ramp behind the wall, Tuft Broadland also watched, then turned to Derkin Hammerhand. “You’d better tell them to take their fallen mounts, too. They’re just leaving them.”
“We’ll keep the dead horses,” Derkin declared. “There’s enough meat there for two or three days.”
The blood drained from the Cobar’s face as he stared at the dwarf, shocked and astonished. “You … you people eat horses?”
“Meat’s meat,” Derkin said, casually. “We can eat anything that doesn’t eat us first. We’ve learned that in the slave mines and in the wilderness.”
The humans collected their dead and wounded, and returned down the pass to where the battalion waited. But instead of mounting up and moving away, the soldiers seemed to be settling in.
“They aren’t leaving,” Calan Silvertoe noted.
“I didn’t think they would, yet,” Hammerhand said. “That commander can’t just take my word for it that they aren’t welcome here. He has to try a few more tricks.”
Throughout the morning and early afternoon, the dwarves on the wall could see furious activity down the pass, men hurrying here and there, doing things. At first, it was hard to tell what they were doing, then sharp eyes aloft spotted a heavy, freshly hewn log being dragged up the pass from a grove beyond.
“They’re making a ram!” old Calan snorted. “They intend to test our gate.”
“Can the gate withstand a ram?” worried Tuft Broadland.
“Making a ram is one thing,” Derkin responded. “Getting it here is another.”
Several hundred yards away, men lined up beside the heavy log, two men on a side. Squatting, they slipped harnesses over their shoulders, then stood, lifting the ram with them. At the wave of Tulien Gart’s hand, they started toward the wall at a trot.
The dwarves let them approach to within fifty yards, then all along the battlements, dwarves with slings and crossbows appeared. The ram bearers saw them there and faltered, slowing to a stop. Tulien Gart saw them, too, and shook his head. “Call them back,” he told a trumpeter. “They’ll never make it.”
At the sound of the trumpet, the relieved rammers turned, sighing visibly, and trotted back the way they had come, carrying their log.
“Next he’ll try a shielded ram,” Derkin said.
An hour passed before the rammers tried it again, and this time they came under a cover of shields—dozens of shields laced together to form a solid roof over the men and their ram. From above, the men could not even be seen as they trotted forward toward the gate.
“Now what do you do?” Tuft asked Derkin.
“Just watch,” the dwarf said.
As the ram bearers gathered speed, aiming their juggernaut at the gate, a foot-high hinged panel opened in the bottom of the portal, with crossbows massed behind it. The men under the shields, seeing sudden death only yards away, pointing up at them, faltered. One stumbled, three fell, then they all went down, dragged to the ground by their log ram while lashed shields clattered down atop them. From the deadly portal, a voice called, “Just get up and back away if you want to live. Leave the log where it is. You won’t need it anymore.”
With no choice at all, the men under the fallen shields slipped out of their shoulder straps and struggled to their feet. On the wall above them, a voice said, “Leave the shields, too. They’re fair trade for the bolts we’ve expended.”
The men hobbled away, bruised and shaken, one being supported by two of the others, apparently the victim of a broken leg. Behind them, Derkin called, “Tell your commander that the reason you’re still alive is that no one here has been hurt!”
The gate opened then, and hordes of dwarves spilled through under cover of the weapons on the wall. By the time the rammers had returned to their commander, all of the shields and dead horses had been dragged to the south side of the wall, and the log ram was disappearing through the portal, which slammed shut when it was clear.
In the evening, as shadows deepened in the pass, arrows began to reach the top of the wall. Soldiers had crept along the brushy sides of the pass and taken shelter in a grove of conifers in bow range of the wall.
Crouching behind battlements, Derkin and his defenders studied the grove and waited. Darkness came quickly in the deep pass, and the archers’ light was failing. Their arrows had done no damage.
At full dark, the dwarves heard scurrying sounds as the attackers withdrew for the night, and Derkin went down the ramp to find Vin the Shadow. “You know what to do,” he told the Daergar.
“We could do more than that,” Vin suggested, but Derkin shook his head. “No,” he said, “you heard what I told the commander. Those arrows haven’t hurt anybody yet.”
With a curt nod, Vin rounded up a dozen more Daergar. They removed their iron masks, revealing the large eyes and foxlike features of their clan. Quickly they gathered torches, tinder, and vials of oil, and filed out through the gate. They were back within minutes, and behind them fires blazed. By morning, the grove of trees that could hide archers would be nothing but smoldering ashes.
For two more days, the standoff in Tharkas Pass continued. Tulien Gart tried everything he could think of to get past the dwarves’ wall, but nothing succeeded. Climbers sent in the dark of night, with grapples and rope, were easy targets for dark-seeing Daergar on the wall. An unmanned ram consisting of two whip-stung horses with a log slung between them went afoul when dwarves above dropped flaming straw in their path. The damage the ram horses did to Gart’s camp as they fled through it was truly awful.
On the morning when Lord Kane’s post patrol showed up in the pass, Gart decided it was time to return to Klanath and report to Lord Kane. Maybe the prince could root out dwarves from Tharkas Pass, but Gart accepted that the Third Battalion, alone, could not.
Before leaving, though, Gart mounted his horse and rode alone to the dwarves’ wall. Sitting his saddle straight-backed and haughty, he looked upward. “Hammerhand!” he called.
Above, the same bright-helmed silhouette appeared. “I’m here, Commander,” the deep, resonant voice responded.
“I’m leaving to return to Klanath,” Gart said. “I
will give your message to Lord Kane, though they may be the last words I ever utter. But just for my own curiosity, who the blazes are you, anyway?”
“That’s pretty obvious,” the voice above said. “I am Master of Tharkas.”
As the commander rode away, the wall’s gate opened and a small crowd of dirty, disheveled humans scurried through it. They were the survivors of the Tharkas outpost who had been held in the mine shaft. Derkin had no further use for them, so he was sending them home. On the wall, dozens of dwarves burst into laughter when the ragged crowd caught up with their commander, who promptly turned his head and backed his horse away from them. Those poor wretches would smell like goblins for weeks, no matter how they scrubbed themselves.
Derkin Hammerhand turned to the Cobar standing beside him. “That commander is a fair soldier,” he said. “He’s more than just a ‘clanking churl.’ ”
“I agree.” Tuft Broadland nodded. “Tulien Gart is a true soldier. I could admire a man like that, if it weren’t for the colors he carries. He’s in the right line of work, but he’s in the wrong employ.”
Part IV:
Master of Kal-Thax
16
The Turning of War
Sakar Kane stormed and raged at the incredible tale brought to him by the commander of his Third Battalion. A stone wall across Tharkas Pass, the man reported. And dwarves! Dwarves forbidding entry into his lands, by his own troops.
“You’re telling me that you—with a full battalion—could not overcome a bunch of stupid, cowering dwarves hiding behind a simple wall?” the Prince of Klanath hissed, his eyes burning into those of his commander.
The Swordsheath Scroll Page 18
