The rearward sections were already in motion, drivers whipping up their teams and carters grabbing their leads. Within moments, the long, ambling line of the caravan was a shortening, thickening thing, widening at center as the heavier vehicles pulled out right and left to let the travois, pack beasts, and sleds move in between them. Women, children, and old people were hurried forward, carrying their personal gear, into the center of the closing mass of vehicles and stock. Men not driving teams grabbed up their weapons and ranked themselves along the outer perimeter, their lines closing as the caravan became a moving oval compound, then a tightly-packed circle.
Suddenly, here and there, chaos erupted. Here a team broke free from its traces, leaving a wagon stranded. There a runner-barge overturned, spilling its load. Elsewhere two carts collided and broke down where they sat.
Bram Talien saw some of these things and drew his own blade. “Sabotage!” he muttered, heading into the crowd around a broken wagon. But armed men confronted him there, denying him entrance. A man he knew—Grif Newgrass, one of his own neighbors—raised a heavy sword and shouted, “Stand back, Trademaster. There’ll be no trading this year. We’ve a better way to get what the dwarves have!”
Bram circled about on his mount, trying to understand what was happening, and found himself surrounded by riders, all carrying their weapons at hand. The strangers were upon them, surrounding them, and in the distance ahead, at the front of the caravan where old Riffin Two-Tree and the Chanderan guards were, steel rang on steel.
The trademaster saw a wagon driver pitch from his seat, clutching at an arrow in his throat. He saw a line of barbarians charge, with lances and swords, into a cluster of panicked Chanderan workers. He wheeled his horse and dodged a spearpoint as an attacker lunged at him. With a flick of his sword he scored the man’s cheek, then drove the blade home beneath his chest-plate. The man screamed and twisted, and Bram fought to withdraw the sword. Something rang against his helmet, sending it flying from his head. He freed his sword, twisted sideways in his saddle, and started to swing at the man behind him … and again something hit him—this time a solid, clubbing blow against his temple.
The world went dark for Bram Talien.
He awakened slowly, fighting the throbbing ache in his head. When he tried to move, pain blinded him for long moments, but finally he fought it down, opened his eyes, and raised his head.
He lay in a crude tent of some kind. A fire burned near his feet, and smoke hung thick above the heads of the men who sat around it, watching him. Bram’s hand went to his belt, but there were no weapons there.
The man nearest was burly and dark-bearded and looked familiar. He turned his head, and the trademaster recognized him. It was Grif Newgrass. The others were strangers—outlanders. Grif grinned and nodded his head. “You’re awake,” he pointed out. “That’s good. Thought maybe our new friends had killed you.”
With a tongue as dry as leather and a voice that was no more than a rasping whisper, Bram Talien asked, “What is happening, Grif? Who are these men?”
“Doesn’t matter who they are,” the man said. “Only thing that matters for you is to do exactly like you’re told. You see, the old chief … well, he kind of met with an accident, so now the good people of Chandera need somebody to answer to. Somebody they’re used to answering to. You’re the trademaster, so you’ll do. We’ll tell you what to say to them.”
“What do you want?”
“Why”—the man’s beard split in a toothy grin—“we got business with those dinks in Thorin. That’s what our new friends call dwarves. Good word, isn’t it?—Dinks. They have what we want, and we’re going to take it.”
“Thorin’s what we want,” another man growled. “Time human people had that place. Our leader has plans for it. The dinks know you. You’ve done business with them. So you’ll be our decoy and our shield.”
“Why should I do what you say?” Bram struggled to a sitting position, his head ringing with pain.
The man waved a casual hand. “Show him, Clote.”
Across the tent, the one called Clote stood and pulled back a wide flap, opening the shelter. Beyond was the remains of the caravan—teams and conveyances drawn into a solid ring. Within the ring, Chanderan men labored, carrying things here and there, while armed strangers—and a few Chanderan traitors—strode among them, supervising.
And in the center of the enclosure a crude fence had been erected. As men moved past it, Bram’s eyes widened in shock. Within the fence were women and children. At the corners of the fence, archers sat atop short towers. At a signal from the man at the tent flap, rough men pushed into the enclosure, shoving women and children aside, then appeared at the fence holding two women, pushing them forward into view.
Bram’s mouth twisted in a snarl. “Chara,” he muttered. “And Corian.” With a lunge, he tried to get to his feet. His hands went out, searching for a weapon—or for a throat to throttle. Grif Newgrass punched him cruelly in the stomach, then kicked his feet from under him. “You just don’t understand, do you, Bram?” he spat. “Riffin Two-Tree and his soldiers are dead, and you’re not in charge any more. We are.”
“Told you those women would get his attention,” another man chuckled. “The trademaster’s wife and his daughter. Just say the word, Grif, an’ I’ll see to both of them, myself.”
The dark-bearded one ignored him, gazing indifferently at Bram Talien. “That’s why,” he said, casually. “Right there’s the reason why you and everybody else here will do exactly as you’re told.” He glanced outside, then turned again, a cruel smile parting his beard. “Oh, and don’t expect any help from the Golash bunch. Grayfen’s people have them, too, just like we have you.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Bram gasped. “The dwarves …”
“… might never know what hit ’em,” Grif shrugged. “Or maybe they will, and they’ll fight. If so, you and your ‘good citizens’ will help us.”
“Never!” Bram spat.
“Oh, I expect you will. After all, we’re all human. When it comes right down to it, humans will side with humans against a bunch of ugly dinks.”
Somewhere beyond the captured caravan, beyond sight of Bram Talien but not far away, the rivers called Hammersong and Bone flowed through their valley. Just across, the camps of the humans spread to the foot of the terraces, which rose in methodical, precise steps toward the west wall of Thorin Keep.
Mighty Thorin stood above it all, massive and shuttered behind great gates. Yet still the call for Balladine—the chorus of the thunder-drums—rang through the mountains. Come trade with us, they seemed to sing. Come and be our guests for Balladine.
Soon, the gates would open. Then Thorin would also be open—to attack.
In a magically protected hut among the encampments, two embers of red glowed in the dark interior beyond a low portal. Grayfen Ember-Eye rested, preparing for tomorrow. With his eyes removed, he was free of the searing pain they always brought him, and he could review his plans.
He could only estimate the strength of the dwarven fortress. Humans had been inside the place, as far as the great hall called Grand Gather, but he knew of none who had been beyond. It was reasonable to assume, though, that the great foundries and smelters lay beyond, and the shops and sleeping quarters. There would be some internal defenses, of course, but nothing that his hordes could not overcome.
How many dwarves were there? No one seemed to know, but it was assumed that there were several thousand at least. The big cavern of Grand Gather, which some people had seen, would hold several thousand. But Grayfen was not worried by that. Even if there were five thousand dwarves in that great lair, he still had the forces to outnumber them. And once inside, numbers would prevail.
The gates would open for Balladine. Once open, it required only a first assault force to hold them open until his men could get inside. And Grayfen had the means to hold the gates. The magic imposed upon him long ago by that sorcerized dwarf was a wild magic, and ha
rd experience had taught Grayfen that his use of it was limited. But he had learned some uses, and they would serve him well at Thorin.
Resting, he wished that he could truly sleep, but darkness would not come. Resting on their pedestal, the two red orbs gazed from the hut at the red panorama beyond, and as always, Grayfen saw what they saw. In bright red hues, the scene lay there before his removed eyes—the fortress of the dwarves.
Great, planted terraces climbed the mountainside like huge steps. At the back of the uppermost terrace stood Thorin Keep, a monolithic structure of stone blocks lined with balconies and flanked by the two lower sentinel towers. The third and highest tower, called the First Sentinel, stood on the slope above the keep, a tall, stone spire overlooking all of Thorin.
Below the lowest balconies were the great gates, and behind the gates—deep within the mountain itself, beyond the stores and trade stalls—was the gigantic cavern called Grand Gather. That much of Thorin, Grayfen knew by heart. What lay beyond was only conjecture, but there was no doubt that there were smelters, foundries, and forges. The clouds of steam that rose from the mountain peak far above and beyond Thorin Keep said that they were there, somewhere below.
No human knew exactly what lay beyond Grand Gather, but that would change soon. Grayfen would know, and it would all be his.
7
Night of the Last Moons
No human knew what lay beyond Grand Gather, nor had any ever guessed the extent of Thorin. For what lay beyond the big cavern was most of Thorin. The visible face of Thorin Keep, the flanked gates, even Grand Gather itself, were only the antechambers of a huge complex where most of the Calnar lived their lives without ever seeing the world outside their mountain—or having any desire to.
Deep within the mountain, beyond Grand Gather, was an entire city built around a huge, cylindrical shaft that was the heart of Thorin. At the bottom of the shaft were the smelters, where vast, glowing fires never cooled. Above, at the next level, were foundries set in a circular cavern whose center was the great shaft. Above that, another “ring” cavern had been delved, with a ceiling that sloped upward toward the center shaft. Here were the forges of Thorin, a hundred feet below the grand concourse which was the city’s central district.
The great airshaft rose through this, up and up, ringed by delved caverns at regular intervals. Near the central shaft at each level were markets and stalls, shops and storage rooms, the quarters of wardens and marshals, and the manufactories where large implements and structures were assembled. Beyond, in each ring level, were the homes of the people of Thorin.
As the day of Balladine approached, Colin Stonetooth led an inspection tour of all central levels and nodded his approval. “We have always known that the day would come when Thorin would be threatened,” he told his wardens. “It is for this reason that nothing beyond Grand Gather has ever been opened to outsiders. Our greatest strength lies not in what others know of us, but in what they don’t know or even suspect.”
Tera Sharn, following along with her brother Tolon, shook her head. “Those people out there, waiting for the Balladine … they haven’t been enemies. They are our neighbors.”
“Some of them,” Willen Ironmaul corrected. “Have you looked out at the valley, Tera? I have. Never have I seen so many humans before. There are thousands of them, everywhere one looks. If every human in Golash and Chandera were there, it would not account for half that crowd.”
“I have seen,” Tolon Farsight breathed. “And I do not like what I have seen.”
“But Chandera and Golash are there!” Tera persisted. “Their banners fly above their caravans as always. They are at the front of the assemblage.”
“With many strangers just beyond,” Bardion Ledge, the waste warden, reminded her.
“Their banners are there,” Cullom Hammerstand agreed, “but where are Garr Lanfel and Riffin Two-Tree? They have not come to the gates to hail us, as they did in past years. Not even Bram Talien has come, seeking ale and news. It is strange, at least.”
“Ominous,” Tolon said darkly.
Tera Sharn lowered her eyes, still shaking her head. “I hope there is some … some harmless explanation.”
“I hope so, too,” Colin Stonetooth laid a gentle, powerful hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I pray to Reorx and all the covenant gods that tomorrow’s dawn will bring nothing more than the opening of a fine Balladine.”
“But until we know,” Willen Ironmaul muttered, “we keep our tools to the left.” The captain of guards turned to Wight Anvil’s-Cap, delvemaster of Thorin. “Are the inner gates prepared, Delvemaster?”
“They’re as ready as a thing can be that has never been tested,” the old dwarf growled.
“Tested?” A thin smile spread the whiskers on Colin Stonetooth’s face. “Wight, if you can devise a test for something that, once fallen, can never be raised again, I’d like to see it.”
The delvemaster was not amused. “Reorx grant us that they are never needed.” He shrugged. “Thorin would never be the same, ever again.”
“Reorx grant that none of our … defenses … ever are needed,” Colin agreed. “All the same, though, when the gates are opened tomorrow, I want everything in place, just as we have planned.” He raised his head, listening. Here in the higher levels of Thorin-Heart, the great ventilator shaft carried sounds from the outside world. The Balladine drums, which had continued to sing since Handil’s first stroke on his vibrar, rose in a crescendo of distant thunder, then stopped. The echoes died, and silence hung over the great peaks above Thorin.
“The moons have risen,” Tera Sharn said. “The call is done. Tomorrow begins Balladine.”
Beyond him, throngs of Calnar were coming and going on the public way. Almost everyone in sight carried a tool of one kind or another. Even the women and many of the children were armed.
Colin Stonetooth angled across the way to where a hand-wide trough, hewn from stone, ran for several feet along a wall between two buttresses. Clear water flowed through the trough, emerging from a three-inch hole in one pillar, disappearing into a similar hole in the next. The chieftain cupped his hands, dipped some water, and drank, then muttered an oath as a three-inch iron ball rolled out of the upper hole and along the trough, showering him with droplets of spray. “Rust!” he said. “I wish the tap warden could come up with some better way of maintaining his aqueducts.”
Another of the iron balls emerged, rolled languidly down the trough, and disappeared into the lower pipe.
“They work, though,” Tera Sharn pointed out. “The water is always clean.”
At the same time that Colin Stonetooth and his advisors were inspecting the dwarven city’s defenses, Handil the Drum and Jinna Rockreave stood atop Thorin Keep, watching the moons rise above the mountains. Wrapped in furs against the cold, they watched Solinari edge above the crag, and Jinna slipped her hand into Handil’s. “Will nights always be so beautiful?” she murmured.
He smiled down at her. “I promise it, my love. Always.”
“Oh? You can keep such promises, then, Handil Moonraiser?”
“Of course I can,” he chuckled. “With you beside me, there is nothing I can’t do. I’ll show you.” He pointed upward, toward the dark silhouette of the crag below the white moon. “Watch, just there. In a moment, I shall command a red moon to rise, to follow the white one into the sky.”
“Silly,” Jinna giggled. “Lunitari always rises there in this season.”
“Just because it always does, that doesn’t mean I didn’t make it happen this time, just for you.”
“I see.” She snuggled closer beside him. “And for how long will you have these marvelous powers, Handil Coldblade? Long enough to see us married, I hope?”
“Longer than that,” he assured her. “It is my intention to please you, my love, for as long as we both shall live.”
A red glow began to form above the dark crag, where wisps of steam-cloud danced in the mountain wind, rising from the hidden warmth of Thorin�
�s great central shaft. Gently, Handil released his hand from hers, and unslung the Thunderer from his back. With deft hands he unwrapped the big vibrar, letting its polished surfaces catch the moonlight. He handed its wrap to the girl and removed his mallets from his belt.
“I began the song this year,” he said. “It is only right that I help end it.”
Slinging the great drum under his left arm, he raised his mallets over its forward head, hesitated for a moment, listening to the song of the drums atop the Sentinels and the nearby slopes, then lowered them in a quick, soft tattoo on the drumhead. Instantly, the vibrar came to life, its deep voice floating outward on the air to join the song of the drums, swelling in volume as he blended his rhythm into theirs. The air above Thorin Keep seemed to throb with the powerful voice of the Thunderer, and the Sentinel drums responded, their voices blending in vast harmonies. Further drums, here and there on the slopes, added counterpoints to the fabric of sound.
Gradually, as the red glow brightened beyond the crag, Handil increased his tempo and his volume. The very mountains seemed to come alive to the sound of singing drums, and as the red moon appeared, adding its light to the white light of Solinari, the vibrar and all the other drums swelled to a crescendo that crashed and echoed among the slopes of the Khalkists. With a final tattoo of salute, Handil ceased his playing and muted the big drum under his arm, in exact synchronization with the muting of all the others, all about.
The echoes died away, and there was only the sound of the wind in the peaks.
Handil put away his mallets and replaced Thunderer’s wrap. “It is done,” he said, quietly. “With the sunrise tomorrow, it is Balladine.”
“Balladine,” Jinna echoed, turning to look westward, down the long rank of terraces. Out there, in the upper valley, hundreds of fires winked in the night—far more than she had ever seen before. “Balladine, and our wedding, yours and mine. Moonraiser mine, let it be all of that, and nothing more.”
The Covenant of the Forge Page 7
