The old woman with the splitting maul raised an eyebrow and said, “If you want to be in this line, then get a move on, or we’ll go around you.”
Handil glanced again at the big maul and the spikes, then stepped back. “Go ahead, mother. What you are doing looks far more useful than anything I had in mind.”
“I can see what you have in mind,” the woman said, glancing at Jinna Rockreave. “But the shops are hardly the place for it.”
Handil grinned, conceding, and turned away. “Come and walk with me, Jinna. We can see to our tools later.”
He was so absorbed in her that he didn’t see the rail-setter approaching, carrying heavy lengths of steel on his shoulder, until the workman turned and his burden collided with the forward end of the great, muted drum slung from Handil’s shoulder. The result was stunning, almost deafening. Even swathed, the Thunderer responded to the blow on its drawn head with a throb of sound that seemed to shake the very walls of Thorin. Here and there, little showers of dust and shards of stone fell from ceilings. People staggered, their hands going to their ears. A short distance away, timbers groaned and dwarves shouted curses as the massive, unsecured framing of the weavers’ stalls shifted in its footings.
Quickly, Handil swung the drum around, wrapping his arms around the center of it to muffle its resonance. The throb died to a rumbling echo, like distant thunder. Jinna was staring at him, wide-eyed, as were others all around.
The powerful drum-tone was followed by a moment of silence all along the concourse, then shouts and babbling as people hurried about, making sure no one was hurt and looking for structural damage in the stone walls. Apparently—and luckily—there was none. Still, Handil found a crowd of Calnar facing him as he redoubled the muting wraps on his drum.
“Someone other than the chieftain’s son would be up before the wardens for sounding a drum in Thorin,” a scowling carpenter snorted.
“Oh, back off, Hibal,” someone else said. “It was only an accident.”
“The kind of accident that could bring this concourse down upon us,” a rock-cutter said. “There are rules, you know!”
Handil faced them, level-eyed, and raised a hand. “Rules are rules,” he said, so that all could hear, “and no exceptions. You have my apology and my promise. I will report this to the wardens myself and take the penalty any would take.” He looked at the carpenter who had first objected. “Does that satisfy you, Hibal?”
For a moment, it seemed the carpenter might want to challenge. Hibal considered it, gazing at the wide shoulders of Handil, then shook his head. “Another time maybe. I have work to do.”
“Any time,” Handil assured him. “Whenever you like, and I’ll buy the ale afterward.”
Cale Greeneye had appeared from somewhere, inquisitive as always. The chieftain’s youngest son carried a long, wrapped parcel on his shoulder. As Handil turned away again, with Jinna, Cale fell into step alongside. “That was some noise you made, Brother,” he said. “If you were planning to put points on the vibrar, I don’t think you need to bother. That thing is weapon enough, just as it is.”
“I expect I’ll be hearing about that for a while,” Handil admitted dourly. He nodded at his brother’s parcel. “What have you there?”
“A sword,” Cale said. “That same sword that the man had.…” He glanced at Jinna, not certain whether she knew about the human who had died in Grand Gather.
“It’s all right.” Handil stowed his mallets in his belt and took Jinna Rockreave’s hand in his. “I’ll tell Jinna what has occurred. Where are you going?”
“I’m on my way to the guards’ hall to collect some armor and see about a horse. I’ll need …” He raised a brow, looking at his brother. “Oh, you don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Willen is organizing the guards for close patrols, so I volunteered to lead a search westward, to see if we can find out what happened out there.…” Again he glanced at the puzzled face of Jinna Rockreave, then continued. “It was my idea. The escort will be made up of volunteers.”
“Anything for a journey, Little Brother?” Handil grinned. “Still, you might find something. What did Father say about this adventure?”
“What could he say? I was going, anyway. He just said to keep my wits about me.”
“Good advice, considering what the wardens have learned about the wild humans. It sounds like Golash and Chandera are full of strangers. Unfriendly strangers.”
“Well, those are the concern of Cullom Hammerstand’s agents. I plan a far search … clear to the Suncradles, or beyond if necessary. I’ve always wanted to see what’s out there, anyway.”
Cale’s face—a face just made for laughter, many said—turned serious. “I will miss the Balladine, Handil, and I may miss your wedding, too. So I have something here, for both of you.” He opened his shoulder pouch and drew forth a small bag of fine suede. With a shrug, he handed it to Jinna.
The girl opened it, looked inside, and turned wide eyes on her future brother-in-law. “Oh, Cale! They’re beautiful!” From the bag she withdrew a pair of jeweled rings, exquisitely interwoven bands of silver and copper, with gold traceries so fine that the eye could barely follow them. Each band was inset with a trio of cut diamonds.
“They’re elvish work.” Cale shrugged. “I’ve had them for years, thinking there might be a good use for them. I’d be honored if you and Handil would exchange them at your wedding. That way, it will be as though I were there to add my blessing to your union.”
They stopped beneath a sun-tunnel to look at the rings, and Handil felt his throat tighten. Cale Greeneye … Cale Cloudwalker … Cale who was so different from most Calnar that he might have had elven blood in his veins had such been possible. Handil had never understood his youngest brother, even for a moment. Cale was always full of surprises—just such surprises as this. At a loss for words, Handil the Drum placed a fond hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Jinna looked as though there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Cale, of course we will. These are a wonderful gift! And you will be there with us.”
“It’s just a pair of rings.” Cale said, embarrassed. “No big thing. Just—well, just think about me if I don’t see you again before your time. I’ll think of both of you, too.”
Without another word, Cale turned and strode away, his wrapped sword over his shoulder. He had said his brief goodbyes—to Tolon and Tera, to his father, and now to Handil and his Jinna. He was anxious to be away, to put the familiar sights of Thorin behind him, and see what some of the distant places held.
He was certain that the sword he carried had belonged to Agate Coalglow, and they said the horse that had returned was Piquin—Sledge Two-Fires’ favorite mount. It seemed certain now that the western patrol was dead, killed by wild humans. Agate had been Cale’s friend, and Sledge Two-Fires was a dwarf he had admired. It seemed appropriate to Cale that he take with him something of them when he went to look for clues to their fate.
Clues, and a look at what lay beneath the Suncradles—and maybe what lay beyond.
It was evening when Cale Greeneye rode out from Thorin, mounted on the high back of Piquin and followed by six other young adventurers who had volunteered to go with him. The sun was setting beyond the Suncradles, and soft evening light lay on the valleys. But both visible moons were in the sky, and there was light enough for travel. The horses were fresh, and the trails open.
Cale looked back, just once, at the great outer wall of Thorin. “Thorin-Dwarfhome,” he whispered. “Thorin-Everbardin, keep my soul. Welcome this one home should I never return.”
Then he turned his eyes westward, where the last glow of day outlined the wavy peaks of the Suncradles. “Keep pace,” he called to his companions. “There is a lot of world to see out there, and no better time than the present.”
Eyes watched them all the way across the Valley of the Bone and out the Chandera Road—furtive, sullen human eyes, hidden in shadows all along a closing line which wou
ld soon be a human cordon around Thorin. Eyes watched, but no man lifted a hand. The seven armed and mounted dwarves were packed for travel, and they were going away. They didn’t matter. They would be not be here to interfere with what Grayfen planned for the citadel of the dwarves.
6
The Betrayal
Bram Talien was worried. As trademaster of Chandera, he was responsible for the caravan wending its way toward Thorin, for the midsummer fair that the dwarves called Balladine. Normally, the annual journey was more a pleasure than a worry. As a trader and merchant, Bram Talien enjoyed visiting the Calnar fortress. It was a challenge to match wits with Cullom Hammerstand, the dwarves’ warden of trade, and he had a deep respect for Colin Stonetooth.
The dwarves were not human, of course, but there were dwarves whose company Bram Talien preferred over that of some people he knew.
The caravan was like a traveling city. Carts, wagons, barrows, pack beasts and laden travois by the hundreds wound upward on the mountain road in a line that was sometimes three miles long in the narrow passages, and fully half of the citizens of Chandera trudged along among them, tending stock and driving teams.
Here was the annual commodity wealth of Chandera: grains from lowland fields, spices and scents from the Bloten frontiers, hardwood timbers from the forests bounding the plains of eastern Ergoth, bonemeal and herbs, wooden baskets, tapestries and rugs, and a dozen kinds of wicker furniture. All were things that the dwarves of Thorin cherished and would trade for with their own commodities. And in special wagons near the front of the line was a real prize, something that would make the dwarven traders’ eyes go wide and their bids go high.
Most of the men were armed, and dozens of them were mounted, riding guard on the train. Never in memory had a Balladine caravan been seriously threatened. Sometimes thieves would try to slip into a night camp to filch whatever they could find, and now and then a wandering band of nomads might shadow the train for a day or so, but a caravan in strength was a formidable company, and there had never been an attack. But now Bram Talien was apprehensive.
All through the land, it seemed, things were changing. Just in the past year, strangers had come among them in Chandera, and it seemed to Bram that among his own people—the subjects of Riffin Two-Tree the Wise—moods had shifted. There was talk of Chandera being “poor,” and talk of fortune hunting. It was disturbing. Sometimes Bram felt as though some Chanderans were turning from the old ways and looking in strange, new directions. A sullen, angry discontent was spreading where before had been contentment.
And now there was the more immediate concern—the strangers in the distance, who clung to the caravan route as though the caravan were a flock of sheep being herded. The scouts reported large groups of people—strangers all—flanking and paralleling them, and hardly an hour passed that there were not people on the hilltops watching them.
Bram Talien had told Cullom Hammerstand’s dwarven agents about the strangers on Chandera land and of his concerns. It was common for the chiefs of trade to share such information prior to Balladine. But now, two days out from Riffin Two-Tree’s village, he realized that there were far more strangers in the land than he had known. They seemed to be everywhere—wild-looking, oddly dressed men who might have been assembled from dozens of different tribes—and the only certain thing about them was that they were all armed.
The land was full of movers these days, it seemed. Refugees from the south brought tales of horror, of dragons a’wing over Silvanesti, of dragonfear and dragonfire and awful magics which spread like sand on the winds: trees that danced and captured spirits, bogs that erupted vile acids, stones that exploded, and lightnings that crackled through the forests to find and strike some living thing.
How many dragons were there? Some said one or two, some said hundreds. Personally, Bram Talien doubted that any of the travelers had seen more than a few dragons, if any at all, but that did not diminish his concerns. One dragon alone would be enough to start panic and breed mass migrations.
The stories meshed in some way with the strange disappearance of elves from the realms of the eastern Khalkists. Elven parties had been common in past times. They had crossed Chandera now and then in their journeys and had shared fires with Chanderan herdsmen and patrols.
Often, in olden times, elves had even come to the dwarves’ Balladine, and the goods they brought to trade were much coveted.
But it had been several seasons now since Bram Talien had even seen an elf, though Riffin Two-Tree’s scouts had recently reported large numbers of what looked like western elves skirting the mountains south of Bloten, eastward-bound … eastward, toward Silvanesti.
Something was going on in the south, and the results in these lands were bands of migrants, uprooted tribes moving from where they had been to wherever they were going. But there was something different about the people who now flanked the Chanderan caravan. These did not look like refugees. They looked more like mercenaries.
Spurring his chestnut pony, Bram Talien rode forward along the plodding line of the caravan, feeling the wind in his beard as the horse ran. Though only half the size of the great, gold-and-white horses of Thorin, the chestnut was a good mount, as fast and strong as any in Chandera, and it was the trademaster’s favorite.
Forward of the camp carts, near the front of the train, eight high-sided wagons rolled along, each drawn by a double string of oxen. Bram slowed, casting a careful eye over the wagons and their teams and rigging. Here was the special commodity with which he hoped to gain trade concessions from Cullom Hammerstand. In the high ranges on the eastern perimeter of Chandera, diggers had found a large deposit of the shiny, black firestone that the dwarves used to smelt iron and make their steel.
Cullom Hammerstand would do everything in his power to try to get the firestone for a low price. Bram smiled faintly, imagining the posturings and hand-wringing the wily dwarf would go through, trying to trade him down. Chandera would see a handsome profit this year at Balladine.
Some of the drivers and crewmen tending the high wagons turned to watch the trademaster pass, and one or two waved.
He waved back. “Tend your loads well,” he called. “This year we will out-trade the dwarves of Thorin.”
“We’ll get this stuff there, Trademaster,” a man called, “but it’s your task to see we get a good price for it.”
Bram nodded and started ahead again, then frowned as another voice came to him on the wind—another man, speaking to his companions. “If we had the dwarves’ smelters and forges, we’d have no need to trade with them,” the voice said angrily. “If we had Thorin, we’d make our own steel, and high time we did. Those selfish, bit-pinching dinks have held Thorin too long, as I see it.”
Bram looked around, but whoever had spoken had turned away, and the others looked away as well.… Were they embarrassed at the words? Or did some among them agree?
It was troubling.
At the head of the caravan, Bram pulled up alongside Riffin Two-Tree, chief of the Chanderans. The chief rode a white horse and carried sword and shield as he always did when afield. With his iron-gray beard and studded helmet, his shoulders bulging against the seams of his leather-and-bronze coat, Riffin Two-Tree looked as fierce and formidable as he always had, until one approached very closely. Then the fading color of his cheeks, the slight moistness of his crinkled eyes, were a reminder that this man had been chief for more than fifty years, and was older—despite his stamina—than most humans ever expected to be.
“News from ahead?” the trademaster asked.
Riffin glanced around at Bram, his old eyes troubled. “We’ll be at the meadows below Thorin by nightfall,” he said, “but the scouts say the encampment is full—people everywhere.”
“The Golash caravan is there ahead of us?”
“Not Golash.” The old chief shook his head. “Garr Lanfel’s train is still a day away. These are others—hundreds of armed men, like those who flank us in the hills. The scouts say their encampme
nts fill half the valley already, with more arriving by the hour. And they carry no trade goods of any kind.”
Bram Talien frowned. “What does it mean, my chief? What is happening?”
“It could mean trouble for the dwarves of Thorin,” Riffin Two-Tree said. “It has the look of an invasion, and if we’re not careful we could find ourselves caught up in it.”
“Then we should stay back,” Bram suggested. “Thorin is Chandera’s friend. We have no argument with the dwarves.”
Riffin turned to look at him. “Are you sure, Bram? You have heard the talk, just as I have.”
“Some of our people are discontented,” Bram agreed. “It comes of jealousy, I think.”
“I think it is more,” Riffin rasped. “I think there are those among us who are doing their best to spread hatred toward the dwarves.”
“But why?”
“To serve someone’s purpose, obviously. But you are right, Bram. We will hold back until we know what is going on. I want no part in any plot against Colin Stonetooth’s people … for more reasons than one.”
Bram nodded. “They are our friends.”
“Yes, they are our friends. But even if they weren’t, I’d want no part of war with Thorin. Don’t ever underestimate the dwarves, Bram. They would be a formidable enemy.”
“Thank the gods we don’t need to test that,” Bram said. “Once within sight of Thorin, I’ll call a halt. We’ll keep our distance for a day or so, until we know—”
A shout from the rear interrupted him, and he turned. All along the caravan, flankers were closing in—the strangers, coming out of the hills, closing in on the long train like a well-organized cordon.
And just ahead, at the top of a rise, riders appeared—heavily armed men, spreading out across the road.
Riffin Two-Tree drew his shield from his shoulder and unslung his blade. All around him, Chanderan guards followed suit. Bram Talien spun his pony around and raced back along the caravan, shouting, “Alarm! Alarm! Close for defense!”
The Covenant of the Forge Page 6
