The Covenant of the Forge

by Dan Parkinson

  “Sledge led the missing patrol.” Willen Ironmaul added.

  At the council table, Cullom Hammerstand, warden of trade, pulled a rolled scroll from his belt and placed it on the oaken surface. “Heed the words of the human prince, Garr Lanfel, Sire. He said this man is not of Golash, but is one of many strangers recently come. Garr Lanfel is an honorable man, Sire … for a human. His warning bears out these reports of the past several weeks. Large bands of humans have been converging, both on Golash and on Chandera. They come quietly and blend with the humans there.”

  “Many people are adrift these days,” Talam Bendiron noted. As always, the tap warden was cautious about reaching conclusions.

  “Many are adrift,” Cullom Hammerstand agreed, “but not this many.” He unrolled the scroll, squinting at it. “By our agents’ estimates, Sire, these ‘little bands’ converging on the neighboring realms now total several thousand human males, all of them well-armed, and all arriving just in time for the fair of Balladine. Also, in Golash they say the strangers speak to all who will listen, spreading vicious lies about dwarves. They seem to be doing all they can to spread a hatred of the Calnar. And a name is used often among the strangers. The name is Grayfen. Our agents suspect he may be a wizard of some sort.”

  Colin shuddered slightly, as did most dwarves at the mention of sorcery. Magic existed, but it was considered an abomination. “Only in Golash?” he asked. “What of Chandera?”

  The trade warden ran a finger down his scroll, read farther, then looked up. “Bram Talien of Chandera reports strangers, as well, Sire. Though not so many.”

  “All of this, and this”—Willen Ironmaul indicated the sword at Colin’s hand—“are why I felt we should meet here today.”

  “I agree with Willen, Father,” Handil said. “Balladine is at hand.”

  “And I,” Tolon added. “I fear that evil approaches.”

  “Evil.” Colin repeated the word. He waved toward the human prisoner. “Release his bonds. Let’s hear what he can tell us.”

  Strong hands removed the cords and the gag. The man rubbed his hands, glaring at them.

  “Do you speak our language, human?” Colin Stonetooth asked.

  “I speak my language,” the man growled. “But not to dinks.”

  “To what?”

  “Dinks. Filthy dwarves.”

  One of the guards shook his head, amused that this disheveled human, who smelled as though he had never in his life had a bath, should call dwarves filthy.

  “You have heard what has been said, human.” Colin stood, facing the man. “What is your name, and how do you come to have this sword in your possession?”

  “My name is Calik,” the man snapped. “And what I have is my own business.”

  “What happened to the Suncradle patrol?” Willen Ironmaul demanded.

  The man glared at him, tight-lipped.

  “Who is Grayfen?” Handil the Drum asked.

  The man’s eyes narrowed with hatred, but he said nothing.

  Cullom Hammerstand looked up from his counting-scroll. “How many of you are there, and what do you intend?”

  Still the man stood in silence.

  Willen Ironmaul glanced at his chieftain. “With your permission, Sire, I might persuade this creature to talk to us.”

  The man glared at him contemptuously. “It would take more than you, dink.”

  Colin Stonetooth sat down. “Help yourself, Willen. But try not to damage him beyond repair.”

  “Aye.” The captain of guards nodded. Stepping away from the table, he removed his weapons and armor and strode to a clear area in the arena, clad only in kilt, shift and boots. “Send him to me,” he said.

  The guards pushed the man forward, and he balked. “What is this? One man, unarmed, against dozens with swords?”

  “No weapons,” Colin Stonetooth decreed. “And no one else will touch you. Only Willen.”

  “He wants to fight me? One puny dwarf? So I kill him, then what? The rest of you kill me?”

  “If you defeat Willen Ironmaul, human,” Handil snapped, “I will ask for your freedom. Father?”

  “Agreed.” Colin nodded, turning a disinterested palm.

  Again the guards hustled Calik toward Willen. When he was past the table, they gave him a shove and backed away. The man hesitated for a moment, then grinned wickedly at the unarmed dwarf waiting for him. The man stood almost a foot taller than Willen and was strongly built, with long legs, long arms, and burly shoulders. “I’ve killed a dozen real men in the pits,” he hissed. “I’ll make this quick, dink.” His grin widened, and he spread his hands as though in embarrassment. Then, abruptly, he crouched and lunged at the dwarf.

  It was as though the man had run into a wall—into it and over it. There was a thud of colliding bodies, then Calik was on the floor beyond Willen, tumbling and skidding. He raised himself, shook his head, and blinked. Then, with a shouted curse, he launched himself again, towering over the dwarf, hard fists swinging.

  Willen met the man halfway, went in under his blows, and delivered a jarring punch to his midsection. Even as the man gasped, the dwarf was behind him, kicking his feet out from under him, and several solid blows rained on him as he fell.

  Untouched and unshaken, Willen Ironmaul stepped back. “Are you ready to talk to us, human?”

  Enraged, Calik got his feet under him, rushed, whirled, and aimed a lethal kick at the dwarf’s head. Strong hands blocked his leg, twisting it, and Calik fell on his face. Willen Ironmaul twisted the man’s arms behind him, ground his face against the stone floor, then stood and delivered a judicious kick to his ribs. “Now are you ready to talk to us?” he asked. “Everyone is waiting.”

  Calik’s response was a sudden kick that caught Willen in the side and sent him staggering back. Snake-quick, the man pressed his advantage with a rush, a knee to the dwarf’s face, and a two-fisted blow to the back of the neck that might have killed a human. Willen went to his knees, seeming dazed, and the man threw himself onto him, trying to bear him down, to get a killing hold on throat or spine. But the dwarf who had seemed dazed suddenly was upright beneath him, lifting. In an instant, Willen had the flailing, writhing man above his head, and with a heave he threw him across ten feet of empty floor.

  Calik lit, rolled, and crashed against the side of the council table. Before he could move, Willen was on him, pummeling, punishing and bruising him. Calik screamed.

  Willen felt small, strong hands pulling him away. Tera Sham’s voice said, “Willen, please! That’s enough!”

  He let her pull him back, breathing deeply to clear the battle-rage from his head. She was right, of course. The man lay groveling on the floor, obviously defeated. Willen turned toward Tera and heard a gasp as her eyes looked beyond him. Calik was not through. With a shout he came upright, grabbed the sword from in front of Colin Stonetooth, and raised it over his head. When it fell, slashing downward, its bright edge barely missed Tera. Willen pushed the girl back, out of the way, and waved off the dozen or more armed dwarves who were rushing toward him. “Stay!” he commanded. “The human has made his choice.”

  Willen ducked aside from the maddened human’s second cut, dodged the third, and went in under the fourth. In the blink of an eye, Calik was bent over backward, the sword still waving in his hand, and Willen’s short, massive arm was around his neck. With his other arm, the dwarf locked the man’s shoulder … and pivoted, twisting.

  The sound of Calik’s neck breaking was almost drowned by the clang of the dropped sword falling from a dead hand.

  Willen stepped away, letting the big body slump to the floor. He looked toward Colin Stonetooth. “He chose not to speak, Sire,” he said.

  “It is a bad omen,” Tolon Farsight muttered.

  “A bad business,” Handil agreed. “Humans—even those friendly to us—won’t like dwarves killing humans.”

  “I had no choice,” Willen Ironmaul told him. “You saw it.”

  “No, it was his choice,” Handil
agreed. “But there will be anger.”

  Guards hurried forward to drag Calik away. At the council table, Frost Steelbit stood. “There are many questions, Sire,” he said to the chieftain. “But the first of the questions faces us now. With what we have seen, and what we might guess, do we continue with Balladine this year?”

  Before the chieftain could answer, his second son, Tolon Farsight, pushed forward. “Cancel the Balladine, Father,” he said. “This business is an omen. Thorin is in danger from humans. It is best to barricade and guard, and let no human approach this season.”

  “The people of Golash and Chandera are our friends,” Colin pointed out. “They have not threatened us.”

  “Humans threaten us!” Tolon growled. “Does it matter which ones? I say bar them from Thorin. The danger is more than the gain.”

  Colin Stonetooth gazed around at all of them thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Balladine is as important to us as it is to our neighbors,” he said. “We need the humans’ goods in trade, just as they need ours. Let the call continue, let the plans proceed. But”—he stood, turning away—“we shall be very careful this time. Very careful indeed. Tell the people to look to the left side of their tools.”

  5

  The Heart of Everbardin

  The left side of the tools.

  Every Calnar past the age of first-crafting knew the meaning of that. From the old tales came many sayings, each with a wisdom of its own. One was, “If there are enemies, raise your hammer and see it in a mirror.”

  The meaning was clear. In Thorin, though the finest of weapons were crafted there, few people owned swords and lances. Except for the finely made weapons carried by the guards, and the elaborate, exquisitely balanced blades carried by a few others, including the chieftain and the Ten, “weapons” were scarce. A sword was a clumsy, heavy thing, useless for any kind of work except fighting. For games and as a climbing tool a balanced javelin was far better than a lance, and bows and arrows were of no practical value in the delving of stone, the crafting of furniture and finery, the weaving of tapestries or the shaping of clay vessels.

  Humans and others outside of Thorin often thought of the dwarves as being heavily armed, but that was only because most truly fine weaponry in the region came from Thorin. The best of blades, the finest arrowheads, the most valuable spearpoints and daggers, even the massive war machines that human realms coveted, all came from the foundries, forges, and shops of the dwarves of Thorin. They were a major part of the Calnar’s stock in trade, because there were always so many people so anxious to have them.

  It was said, among humans and other races, that the best steel was Calnar steel. The fact was, in all the realms within sight of the Khalkists at least, Calnar steel was the only steel. People of many races could craft in bronze and tin, and some in iron, but in these lands only the dwarves made steel.

  Even the plainest Calnar trade sword would bring fifty bushels of grain at Balladine, and a Calnar steel arrowhead was worth as much as a Calnar steel coin. Humans preferred the arrowheads to coins because they had an alternate use in a pinch.

  Thus, the Calnar were weapon makers for a large part of the world as they knew it. Dwarven weaponry was everywhere—except in Thorin. Few dwarves owned so much as a short sword, or cared to. To the practical-minded dwarves, a thing that was neither useful nor decorative was hardly worth having.

  So there were few weapons in Thorin—as those outside of Thorin knew weapons. But there were tools. It was the nature of the Calnar: tools were as natural to them as breathing. They cherished their tools, and used them constantly.

  Thus, the old saying: If there are enemies, raise your hammer and see it in a mirror.

  The only difference between a hammer for driving a chisel in stone or for clearing tunnels, and a war-hammer, was in how one looked at it. An axe was for felling timber, a maul for splitting rails or squaring stone, a sling for delivering small tools and materials from one subterranean level to another, and a javelin was for securing lift-lines in climbs. But a good axe could as easily cleave bone as wood, a maul could as readily smash a shield as drive a wedge. A sling could throw missiles as well as supplies, and a well-aimed javelin could be as deadly as any spear.

  A helmet was to protect one’s head from falling stone in a delve. A shield was for clearing rubble and deflecting rock showers. Body armor—sometimes metal and sometimes leather—was for working in the foundries, where sparks could fly, and in the finishing shops where implements might be flung from grindstones and burnishing wheels. But these could have other uses as well.

  Raise your hammer and see it in a mirror. Look to the left side of your tools. Be ready to stop work and fight. It was a thing that any dwarf understood. The difference between a tool and a weapon is in the mind of the user and in the circumstances of use.

  Word had already spread to the crafters’ galleries by the time Handil the Drum arrived there, carrying the great, deep-throated vibrar with which he had begun the Call to Balladine. The mighty drum was his own invention—a steel-banded barrel of tapered and curved hardwood slats, capped at each head by tightly drawn buffalo-hide leather. Within were other “heads” of various materials, each pitched to capture and amplify the resonance of the membrane before it. Oval openings around the center of the barrel broadcast its thunder when either head was struck.

  Played atop the Sentinels, Handil’s drum could be heard for miles and its echoes much farther. The Thunderer was not the biggest drum in Thorin, but it was by far the most powerful.

  He carried it wrapped and muted now—as the drums always were when brought within the undermountain realm.

  The sun-tunnel lighted concourse leading to the crafters’ galleries was crowded, as usual, with dwarves hurrying here and there on their various errands. Handil stepped aside to let a sled crew pass. Two great Calnar horses in harness hauled an eight-foot block of hewn granite from one of the new delves while a dozen sturdy Calnar armed with prybars and mallets worked the skids. When the crew was past, Handil went on, nodding to an acquaintance now and then. Sledges rang at a side tunnel where cart rails and tow-rings were being placed for a new cable-way leading up from the farming warrens. Across the concourse, hewers and reaves were at work, fitting massive timbers into newly cut stone to expand the weavers’ stalls.

  The chieftain’s order to be ready for trouble had put worried frowns on many of the faces in the concourse but had not interrupted the rhythm of the place. As always, there were Calnar everywhere, doing all kinds of things, and like every public part of Thorin, the great way was a bustling, flowing turmoil of busy dwarves.

  Handil slowed his pace as he neared the shops. Here the corridors were even more crowded than usual, and it seemed everyone was carrying various tools and items of armor. Lines had formed as people waited their turns to sharpen spikes, fit wrist straps onto hammers, repair buckles on chest-guards, or mount horns or spikes on their helmets. Handil grinned at sight of a gray-haired, aging woman dragging a long-handled heavy maul taller than herself. In her free hand she carried a foot-long, curved spike as sharp as a dagger. A glance at the maul’s head told him what she intended to do. She wanted the spike welded to the trailing face of the big splitter.

  She was looking to the left side of her tools.

  His grin deepened, strong teeth glinting behind his dark whiskers. The venerable mother probably had not the faintest idea of who might be an enemy, he thought, but gods help the enemy who got in the way of that tool.

  “Handil? I thought I saw you here!” The voice from behind made his eyes light, and he turned. Wide-set, serious eyes looked up at him from a broad, pretty face framed by reddish hair. Jinna Rockreave smiled at him, raising a finely crafted net sling. “I need a wrist strap for this,” she said, glancing at his drum. “What are you after? Blades for your drum rings?”

  “Hardly.” He shook his head. “That wouldn’t be very practical. I thought I might modify the mallets a bit, though.” He studied her, seeing the pl
easure in her eyes at their meeting. It was like his own pleasure at seeing her. “It has been too many days since we were together, Jinna. The Call and everything … but I’ve missed you.”

  “And I’ve missed you.” She nodded. “Things have been so hectic, lately, I was afraid we might not meet until our day of joining. I didn’t want to wait that long to see you.”

  “Nor did I.” He was still gazing into her eyes. “I … well, I keep having troublesome dreams. Sometimes I wake up thinking we might never wed at all … that you might change your mind or something. You haven’t, have you? Changed your mind, I mean?”

  “Not in a million years, Handil Coldblade,” she chuckled, then turned serious. “What is the weapon call about? Is there danger?”

  “There could be,” he warned her. “Probably not, but my father is being cautious. Tolon and some of the elders are concerned. There are strange humans about who seem not to like us very much.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Who can understand humans? It’s probably nothing, but with Balladine at hand, it’s as well to be prepared.”

  “I suppose. Hurry, Handil. The line is moving.”

  He looked around. A gap had opened in the line outside the shops, and dozens of people were looking at the two of them, some of them grinning openly. Many of the Calnar knew Handil Coldblade, and everyone knew of him. Handil the Drum was a famous person in Thorin, not so much for being the chieftain’s eldest son—everyone was somebody’s son—but for his magnificent drum and for other things he had invented, such as the turnable vanes which now were installed in most airshafts, allowing for pleasant temperatures in any season, and the winch-operated lift stages in the keep. Throughout Thorin, Handil the Drum was a celebrity.

  Most also knew of the betrothal of Handil and Jinna Rockreave, pretty daughter of Calk Rockreave. Sight of the two young dwarves so obviously engrossed in each other was amusing to many of those waiting at the stalls.