Hammer and Axe Page 2

  The High Overlord did not trust Kistilan. The dark wizard had plans of his own, and the High Overlord knew it. Still, they had an agreement. The mission of the orders—to establish a place of high sorcery in the dwarven lands—was an opportunity too great to let pass. Soon there would be trouble with the dwarves, and Kistilan had agreed to act as the High Overlord’s agent. When the time was right, Kistilan would take command of the mages heading westward where their surveyors had gone and would bring down the fortress of the dwarves.

  Would Kistilan then give over the realm to the High Overlord? The ruler of Xak Tsaroth did not trust him that far, but then, he had a contingency plan of his own. If any human could penetrate the lands of the dwarves, cross it, and make alliances with western Ergoth beyond, it was Quist Redfeather. And the High Overlord owned Quist Redfeather. As long as the man’s family remained captive in the lower chambers of his keep, the High Overlord could command the grim Cobar as he pleased, and the man would do his bidding. Quist Redfeather was already on his way across the dwarven realm. Once before the High Overlord had sent such an emissary, but that one had disappeared. But then, that man had not been Quist Redfeather of the Cobar.

  The High Overlord looked down from his window and smiled a cold smile. One way or another, he would see the dwarves of the mountains defeated. One way or another, Xak Tsaroth would have the riches of Kal-Thax.

  In the Year of Tin of the Decade of Cherry, toward the end of the Century of Wind as time is reckoned by the dwarven thanes of Kal-Thax, the great undertaking of Thorbardin was nearing completion. Deep beneath the peak called Cloudseeker, with its crown of three crags, the Windweavers, in the subterranean caverns first discovered by the Daewar explorer-spy Urkhan, the mightiest work of the ages stood almost finished. Brought together by necessity and prodded onward as much by internal conflict as by the dreams of their leaders, the squabbling, bickering subjects of the bonded thanes had, in the opinion of Quill Runebrand, accomplished the improbable.

  It was not the building of a huge realm underground—that, after all, was only the logical result of ninety years of concerted effort by the finest planners, delvers, craftsmen, stonemasons, and metalworkers in the world. What Quill held as the height of unlikelihood was that so many dwarves of so many tribes, with so many differences of opinion and so many rock-hard prejudices about one another, could have managed to share the same caverns for so long, without wiping each other out.

  Quill Runebrand had never ceased to marvel at the sheer stubbornness behind the great project. Even his old mentor Mistral Thrax, who had been the personal advisor of the visionary Hylar chief Colin Stonetooth, had commented on the strength of purpose that was required, day by day through all the years, to keep thousands and tens of thousands of jovial, arrogant Daewar; suspicious, intuitive Theiwar; sullen, secretive Daergar; and impulsive, unpredictable Klar—not to mention the Hylar, with their tendency to be reserved and aloof; or the Neidar and unaffiliated Einar who wandered about freely; and even the occasional tribes (or tumbles, as Quill thought of them) of bumbling little Aghar—working side by side despite their differences.

  Colin Stonetooth, chieftain of the Hylar when they had come to this land, had seen a vision and had somehow passed along its power to the other leaders of that first Council of Thanes. The vision was Thorbardin, fortress heart of the dwarven realm of Kal-Thax.

  Now the initial plan was nearly complete. Entire cities stood within the great caverns—bright Daebardin with its quartz shafts and crafted sun-tunnels, murky Daerbardin in the shadowed depths of the south sounds, the twin Theiwar communities of Theibardin and Theibolden on the north shore of the Urkhan Sea, the unnamed Klar city sprawling behind the worm warren, and even a jumble of gullies and crude shelters where Aghar lived—now and again—near the Daergar mineral markets. And, mightiest of all, great Hybardin rising level by level within the giant stalactite the Hylar called the Life Tree.

  A hundred varieties of vegetables and edible funguses, and even some exotic grains, were produced in the vast farming warrens. The smelters and forges were never still, and the common markets located along the tunnel roadways thronged with people.

  And usually no more than a dozen cases of murder and mayhem were heard each day in the Halls of Justice. To Quill Runebrand, keeper of scrolls and heir to the lore of Mistral Thrax, that was the real wonder of it all. Not in nine tens of years had there been war among the dwarves.

  Daewar still plotted and schemed against Hylar, Theiwar still resented and belittled Daewar, Daergar still suspected everyone else of trying to steal their mines, and Klar still ran amok now and then. But still the great project went forward. Thorbardin, the planners said, was within two years of completion. The immense, impenetrable structure of Southgate was in place and in working order, and the portal of Northgate was fitted with its huge screws, awaiting placement of the gate-plug. Sun-tunnels provided sunlight where it was desired, and vast ventilation systems directed the flow of fresh air from the grated ducts in the Valley of the Thanes to the exhaust vents beneath the Windweaver crag. Aqueduct systems designed by Hylar craftsmen carried water to all levels of the cities, and elaborate waste-reusal systems provided fresh organics for the farming warrens.

  Even a small magma pit had been completed, deep beneath the lowest levels near Southgate, for the powering of furnaces and smelters. It was, as yet, a balky thing, lacking the natural core of the magma pit the Hylar recalled beneath old Thoradin in the mountains far to the east, but they had succeeded in coaxing it to life, and it worked well enough.

  It was no secret, in the human realms surrounding Kal-Thax, that the dwarves were building—or maybe already had built—a fortress to guard their mountain realm, but little was known about it. The dwarves knew it was no secret, but they considered what they did to be their own business and no one else’s. Not since the completion of the Road of Passage, from southern Ergoth across Kal-Thax to the great pass at Tharkas, had there been the massive human assaults on the dwarven lands that had been common in earlier times. The outlanders who traveled the road saw little more of the dwarven environs than the road itself and the formidable armed dwarves who patrolled it. There had been some sporadic assaults in recent years, usually by troops from the human city of Xak Tsaroth, where the overlords coveted the wealth of the dwarves. But these had been turned back, and for the past several years the border had been relatively peaceful.

  Only one human had ever seen the inside of Thorbardin, an agent of the overlords who had tried to slip through to western Ergoth to seek an alliance against the dwarves. He had not made it, though. Dwarven patrols had searched him on the Great Road, found his seals and credentials from the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth, and had arrested him. By order of the Council of Thanes, he was taken to Thorbardin.

  That man had seen the fortress—or at least a little of it. He was still there, imprisoned in a dungeon, and would remain there at least until the final gate was in place. There was some thought that, once the fortress was complete, he might be given a tour of one of the gateways, then turned loose. It was Olim Goldbuckle’s belief that it might be a good thing for the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth to know just what awaited him if he ever again thought about conquering the dwarves.

  Olim Goldbuckle was senior among the chieftains of the Council of Thanes and served as regent. The old Daewar schemer’s beard had gone from sunshine gold to silver in the decades since the Covenant of Thanes, but still he lent to the council that special blend of joviality, energy, and shrewd wisdom that was the very soul of the Daewar people. Of all the thanes, the Daewar had produced more leaders and high officials in Thorbardin than any except the Hylar.

  Vog Ironface, once the fiercest of Daergar warriors, was second in seniority on the council. The dark-seeker had become no less fierce over the years, as many an impudent challenger had learned, but in council he was quiet and contemplative. Often the last to speak, his voice echoing hollowly from behind his metal mask, or—sometimes—almost whispering
as he made a major point in debate, Vog Ironface was known for the cold, incisive wisdom of his thoughts as much as for his reclusiveness outside of formal council meetings.

  Third in seniority was Slide Tolec. It was said of him that he had never wanted to be chieftain of the Theiwar and had spent ninety years trying to retire, but his own people would not let him. Long-armed, broad-shouldered, and gray of mane when he removed his mesh headgear, Slide Tolec had become a revered member of the high council simply by being intuitively aware—more than any other among them—of the expectations, hopes, and grievances of the people of Thorbardin. When Slide Tolec spoke of the mood of the people, the other chieftains listened.

  And then there were the Hylar. Though not the most senior member of the council, Willen Ironmaul was greatly respected, not only in his own right but as successor to the first Hylar leader, Colin Stonetooth. At about a hundred and fifty years of age, Willen Ironmaul was big, strong, and fit, but to his vitality had been added a deep, almost tangible dignity. Of all the chieftains on the council, Willen Ironmaul—the former leader of the Hylar Guard—was the one who best exemplified the honor and discipline that had become the code of all the forces of Thorbardin. In the wisdom he displayed as a leader of Thorbardin was the echo of yet another wisdom, that of Tera Sharn, his adored wife and the daughter of Colin Stonetooth. And though he held no position of authority, the chieftain’s son, Damon Omenborn, also was a highly respected dwarf.

  Among the high officials of Thorbardin were at least seven top officers who were of Hylar stock. Quill Runebrand had speculated that each culture generated its own special qualities. Daewar excelled in trade, diplomacy, and many of the stone crafts; Theiwar excelled in matters of plain logic brightened by intuition, as well as in the crafting of rails, cables, and roadways; and the Daergar were accepted masters of mining and minerals.

  In the same way, Quill supposed, the Hylar tended to produce both warriors and leaders. Oddly, they also produced poets and musicians, but that seemed to be beside the point. The point was, he assured himself, that of all the necessary functions of Thorbardin, nearly half were directed by Hylar.

  As keeper of scrolls, Quill Runebrand wandered Thorbardin, snooping and observing, listening and questioning, and each day he repaired to his cubicle to enscroll his notes and make his observations, chronicling the great adventure of the creation of Krynn’s finest fortress.

  Lately, he had taken to following Damon Omenborn around. It had started the day Quill went out onto the lower slopes to witness a combat between Damon and his uncle, the Neidar chieftain Cale Greeneye. The challenge was a good-natured one, following an argument over which was mightier in combat, the hammer or the axe. They had not come to any agreement, so, in good dwarven fashion, the only thing to do was to fight it out.

  Quill would never forget that day. There on the sunny meadows of the lower slopes, under a spreading tree, the two warriors—uncle and nephew—had donned armor and taken up arms while hundreds of curious dwarves gathered around to watch.

  The weapons were simple. Damon had carried a hammer and shield, Cale Greeneye an axe and shield. They had faced each other, saluted, then launched a simultaneous attack, each doing his best to kill the other, just to prove his point.

  It was recorded that the two had fought for most of an afternoon, pounding away at each other, lunging, swinging, dodging, and shielding while the sun of Krynn swept from directly above the Windweaver crag to just above the Anviltops in the west. Four times the fight had stopped, while the combatants outfitted themselves with fresh armor and new shields—the discarded items were so dented and bent that they were good only for scrap—then continued with fresh enthusiasm.

  The argument never had been settled. The Neidar with his axe was a match for the Hylar with his hammer, and the Hylar was the equal of the Neidar as well. Finally the two contestants had backed away, saluted each other, and gone off together to see what kind of ale might be found in the taverns of Gateway.

  Behind them, though, a ritual was being born. Many a wager had been laid by onlookers during the combat. The wagers being unsettled by the outcome of the battle, others had taken up the contest. A Daewar merchant had started it by refusing to pay off a side bet to a Neidar woodsman. Before the echoes of their shouts had died away, the two had armed themselves and were having at it under that same spreading tree. Within minutes, a dozen separate conflicts had broken out around them, and the slopes rang with the clash and clatter of steel on steel. From that day forward, it was the custom to settle disputed wagers not in the pits of the Great Hall, where taunts and challenges were often heard, but out on the slopes under what would be named the Tree of Pittance.

  Since then, Quill Runebrand had taken particular interest in Damon Omenborn and had tagged after him with an eye to learning whether the Hylar chieftain’s son had plans to remarry. Damon had married once at about fifty years of age to a lovely Hylar girl named Dena Grayslate. But Dena had died childless, drowned in the Urkhan Sea when a cable-boat capsized, and Damon had never really gotten over it.

  Still, there was the legend of Damon’s birth—that an apparition had appeared and proclaimed that the child would be the “father of kings.” It was a puzzling legend, since there were no kings in Thorbardin, and it was unlikely there ever would be, considering the tribal rivalries of the thanes. Damon Omenborn was ninety years old now—still a robust young dwarf, but certainly no longer a youth. And far from being the father of kings, it was beginning to look as though he might never be a father at all if he didn’t put his grief behind him and find a wife.

  So Quill Runebrand had taken it upon himself to bedevil the chieftain’s burly son about his “responsibilities”—to the point that he began to fear that the big dwarf might break a few of his bones in irritation.

  Just now, though, Damon was away from Thorbardin. He had gone off on some errand with his friend Mace Hammerstand, captain of the Roving Guard, and hadn’t returned.

  Quill had shrugged and resumed his old habits. He roamed, pried and inquired, and made notes. Each evening, at the dimming of the sun-tunnels, he put away his work and made his way to the Den of Respite. Among the things he had learned from old Mistral Thrax was the appreciation of a half-loaf, pot meat, and a mug of good dwarven ale.

  The Dwarven Realm of Old Kal-Thax

  Kharolis Mountains

  Century of Wind

  Decade of Cherry

  Spring, Year of Tin

  (The ninetieth year in the construction of Thorbardin, founded by the bonded thanes of Kal-Thax, under the Covenant of the Forge.)

  1

  The Rage-Seekers

  The scene was like the others that the Neidar had reported. What had been a tiny village, deep within a little valley among the Horn’s Echo Peaks west of the Windweavers, now was a scene of wreckage and devastation. Damon Omenborn stood on a low ledge, brow-shadowed eyes narrowed and cold as he turned slowly, scanning the surrounding slopes for any sign they might give. Beside him his uncle, the Neidar leader Cale Greeneye, cursed quietly and methodically, shaking his head. Below them, Neidar scouts mingled with Mace Hammerstand’s grim warriors from Thorbardin as they poked through the debris, gray-faced and shaken at what they found.

  A few of the low, thatch-roofed cabins had burned, though most were simply demolished and ransacked as though by something gone berserk. Tables, chairs, stools, and cots lay broken and splintered. Bits of fabric, once clothing, towels, and even tapestries, now lay sodden or fluttered in the breeze like little shredded flags. Damaged tools lay scattered on the ground, and even humble cooking pots were strewn about, bent and dented.

  Some of the houses and outbuildings had doors smashed inward and stood empty and deserted. But other cabins had been literally torn apart, ripped asunder log from lintel, their heavy plank doors and shutters torn from their hinges, their roofs smashed as though by rockslides. Within these, which had been the soundest and strongest of the village structures, lay most of the dead. The people
had known that something fearful was upon them and had tried to protect themselves. But their efforts had failed. Whatever had wanted in had gotten in, one way or another.

  Everywhere there was spattered blood, drying in the high mountain air, and the bodies of the dead brought a pallor to even the hardiest dwarves. These people had not been merely killed. They had been violated, their bodies ripped and torn apart. They had been mutilated as horribly as the carcasses of their flocks in the surrounding pastures, as the devastated crops left ruined and flattened in their fields.

  Cale said it was like the other villages where this had happened—three times now, that the Neidar knew about—except for two things. The other tragedies had occurred in distant border villages far to the northwest in the shadows of the Iron Wall Peaks. This was much deeper into Kal-Thax and much closer to the undermountain fortress of Thorbardin. There had been no survivors the other two times. This time there were. Damon gazed down at the little group huddled around a tiny fire and felt a stab of pity. There were only four of them there, being attended and questioned by Cale’s Neidar followers and a handful of Thorbardin warriors, Mace Hammerstand’s Roving Guard, with whom Damon had come from the great fortress beneath the Windweavers.

  Four survivors. Out of a hundred or more peaceful, harmless Einar dwarves minding their own business in their little settlement, only four had survived! A gray-bearded ancient with blood on his shirt, a young woman with auburn hair whose haunted eyes looked out from a face covered with smudges and grime, and two young, orphaned children were all that remained of the village of Windhollow. They had escaped the fury of—whatever it was—by hiding in a root cellar.

  “No one here had a chance,” Damon muttered, his cold gray eyes wintry and fierce. Wind-whipped and tight with barely controlled emotions, he tensed hard shoulders and turned his eyes away from the carnage below. Though at five feet, four inches, Damon was taller than most of his kind, and ninety years had brought him to full maturity, still at this moment he seemed—to his uncle—to be very young. Nothing in Damon’s life so far, in and around the great subterranean realm of Thorbardin, had prepared him for such savagery as was displayed here. Damon had known grief, of course. Cale wondered if his nephew had ever really recovered from the loss of his wife to the waters of the Urkhan Sea. But no one was ever prepared for a spectacle like this.