Mace was busy for a time, directing the preparation of graves. When again he thought of the girl and went to look for her, Willow was nowhere to be found.
2
Into the Wilderness
Among most humans—and even among elves, in certain circumstances—serving as escort to the son of a high chieftain would have been a privilege and an honor. But Damon Omenborn knew that for the two members of the Roving Guard riding west with him, their pleasure at the journey had nothing to do with honor. Among the dwarves, no special prestige was attached to being related to someone important. To the pragmatic, individualistic people of Thorbardin, respect and honor were things earned—each person for himself—and did not follow bloodlines.
The pleasure of Tag Salan and Copper Blueboot in accompanying Damon on his mission lay simply in the fact that they liked him, just as he liked them. Damon had many friends among the Roving Guard and had once been one of them before the death of his wife. He had been out on a mission when the boat accident happened, and had never really forgiven himself for being gone when he could have been with her. But instead of being in Thorbardin he was tracking down a rogue magician who had wandered into dwarven lands and was causing havoc among the Einar.
They had never found the magician. He had disappeared, not to be seen again. But through the years, Damon had nurtured a deep and abiding dislike for magic and the users of magic—a dislike even more intense than the distaste most dwarves felt for wizards.
Still, he rarely displayed much anger. If there was one truly disconcerting thing about Damon Omenborn—aside from the sheer size he had inherited from his father—it was that. He simply never seemed to lose his temper. The Hylar were, of course, a cool-headed people by nature. Everyone knew that. As a rule, Hylar were neither as jovial and exuberant as Daewar nor as quick to anger as the explosive Daergar. Still, Hylar or not, they were dwarves, and theirs was, by and large, a quick-tempered race—quick to anger, quick to react, and, usually, just as quick to forgive and forget afterward.
But if Damon Omenborn ever felt anger, no one had detected it, and many found that quality ominous. What would it take to make Damon Omenborn angry? And—an alarming question to those who knew him well, who knew his strength and his skill—what would he be like if he ever really got mad?
Even now, heading into the wilderness with the memory of the destroyed village still fresh, it seemed to Tag and Copper that Damon was not angry, just intense and curious.
Damon’s map in the sand had told him roughly where the—whatever it was—had begun its foray. He headed straight for the central Anviltops to the west, and, with four days of travel behind them, the three dwarves saw the dark, ruler-straight expanse of Sheercliff in the distance ahead.
The Anviltop range was west of Thorbardin near the center of the old dwarven realm traditionally known as Kal-Thax. Like most places in Kal-Thax, the mountains were named for what they resembled—a long, north-to-south ridge of tall peaks, many of them flat-topped in silhouette, like giant anvils. Along the east slope of the range, near its center, a wide, flat plateau extended outward from the mountains, several miles wide in some places, to the sheer, clefted drop that was Sheercliff. From the east, it was a huge, rough wall of solid stone, many miles in length and rising sometimes hundreds of feet straight up from the slopes below, slopes that dropped away into a series of deep, stony canyons.
Though it lay in central Kal-Thax, the region was one of the wildest and most remote in the dwarven realm. It had been casually noted by Einar herdsmen in the early years of Kal-Thax, but except for observations from a distance—from which had come the names of the Anviltop mountains and of Sheercliff and the broken canyons—the area was largely unexplored. Daergar miners had spoken of Sheercliff as a place where hard ores might be sought sometime in the future, and some of the Daewar spoke of the possibility of extending trade routes across the middle ranges to foster commerce with the humans of western Ergoth—and maybe with the roaming elves who frequented the forests beyond Skywall. But no one had ever really charted or explored the central lands. Most of the dwarven settlement of the mountains of Kal-Thax lay in the eastern third of the region, where the Einar had found fertile valleys and good graze, where the clans had become thanes, and where the immense fortress of Thorbardin was being created deep within a mountain.
As far as anyone in the Thorbardin realm knew, central Kal-Thax was empty.
By the time the travelers made their fourth night camp, within sight of Sheercliff, they were a long way from any place where anyone lived. Thus it came as a surprise when, from the top of a stone bluff in the darkness before the rising of the moons, Tag Salan spotted a speck of firelight some miles away, back the way they had come, on the far side of the wild valley they had spent most of the day crossing. He called to the others and pointed it out to them, but they had no idea whose fire it might be. They hadn’t passed anyone that they knew of. In fact, in the past two days they hadn’t seen anyone at all.
Still, out there to the east, across the valley they had just crossed, someone had a fire going.
“Einar traders?” the Theiwar wondered. “I didn’t see any paths back there, but we could have crossed a trail of some kind.”
“Neidar, maybe,” the Daewar suggested. “They range far out. Maybe they come this far. It might even be some of those searching for the beast.”
“Not likely,” the Hylar said. “The beast was going the other way. It could be Neidar, though, on some other errand. Or it could be a Daergar scouting party looking for new veins to mine.”
“Daergar don’t camp for the night,” the Daewar noted. “Not usually, anyway. They’d rather travel at night than in the daytime. Daylight can hurt their eyes if it’s bright.”
“Then maybe that isn’t a supper fire,” Damon suggested. “Maybe it’s a breakfast fire. It doesn’t matter, though. Whoever they are, they aren’t our concern.” He shrugged and turned to look westward. “That’s our concern. Somewhere ahead, there, is where the thing came from.”
“If your uncle Cale and his Neidar find it, we won’t have to worry about what it used to be,” the Theiwar stated. “They’ll kill it, whatever it is.”
“Then let’s hope they do, and soon.” Damon nodded. “But let’s make sure that, whatever the thing is, there aren’t any more where it came from.”
“Where do we start our search?”
“We’ll start at Sheercliff, and look there. We’ll split up and just scout around. I don’t know what we’re looking for. Maybe a nest of some kind, a cave with fresh tracks nearby, a roost …” He shrugged.
“That’s fine with me,” Tag Salan agreed. “But I intend to have my weapons ready to hand every step of the way.”
The Daewar glanced at the Theiwar and grinned. “I’ve never seen you in any other condition, shadow-hugger. Without your sword, shield, knives, and bludgeons, I don’t think I’d recognize you.”
Damon was staring westward, squinting in concentration, his eyes straining as he tried to see in the fading light. Tag Salan noticed his intense gaze and followed it. “Did you see something, Damon?”
“I thought I did. Like a flash of light, far away.” The three of them scanned the distance, and Tag pointed. “There! I saw it that time. What was it? Lightning?”
“Lightning where there are no clouds?” Copper rasped. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, it was more than a spark, but it wasn’t firelight.”
As the three watched, another distant flash came, a brief flare of bright light, gone in an instant. This time, they saw where it seemed to come from and noted the location by landmarks. The flashes came from Sheercliff. Whether above or below the line of the great fault, they couldn’t tell across the miles, but the flashes had all come from the same place, an area in line with a V-shaped cut in the silhouette of the Anviltops beyond.
They saw no more flashes, though they watched until the moons were high. Just those three, and no more. But it gave them a place
to aim for. “We’ll begin our search there,” Damon said. “Tag, your eyes are best in shadow. You take the slopes below Sheercliff, and I’ll climb the wall and look above, on the plateau. Copper, we’ll leave the horses with you. Find a high point east of the cliff, and have a look from there. You might see something at a distance that we would miss up close.”
They made no fire that night. The speck of firelight to the east, and those odd flashes from Sheercliff to the west, told them that they were not alone in the wilderness. So the three made a cold meal of dried meat and flatbread, put their mounts on good graze beside a tiny stream, and settled in for the night. They would take turns at watch, with a particular eye on both the campfire behind them and the cliff-line ahead. Damon took first watch and awakened Tag Salan when the moons were in the western sky.
Had the Theiwar been third on watch, in the dark hours before morning when the moons had set and only starlight fell on the mountains, he might have seen the shadow that drifted by overhead, dark against the darkness. But Copper Blueboot was on watch then, and his Daewar eyes were better suited to daylight than to darkness. So, though he was alert and watchful, he did not notice the shape above as it passed over the dark camp, heading eastward toward the tiny, glowing embers of the campfire the dwarves had seen earlier.
Willow Summercloud was plagued by dark dreams, as she had been each night since the devastation of her village by the thing that came in the fog. Wrapped in a sheepskin beside the fading embers of her little fire, she tossed and turned, catching what moments of rest she could between the dreadful dreams that kept awakening her and the drifting slumber that would lead only to more such dreams.
This time, though, she awakened not from a dream but to a sound. Even as the sleep faded from her mind, she was out of the sheepskin and crouching, her axe in her hand as she scanned the darkness around her. Something had moved, had made a sound, and was nearby, but for a long moment she saw nothing. Then, dimly against the starry sky, she saw a silhouette that moved, turning to look at her with one big, glistening eye, then with another.
Gripping her axe in both hands, she backed away, squinting. The thing looked like a huge bird in the darkness, with a suggestion of tucked wings and a beak, and long, spread tail feathers that twitched as it turned its head.
“Who … who are you?” she quavered. “What are you?”
The voice that answered her came not from the great bird, but from a point lower down, near her faintly glowing campfire. “No sense trying to talk to Cawe,” it said cheerfully. “Cawe can’t talk. That’s why he lets me ride along, so I can talk for him if there is anybody to talk to. What’s that you’re holding? An axe? We won’t need it. There’s some wood right here to build up the fire.”
A small shadow crouched beside the coals, bent low, and blew on them, flaring them to life, then put on a few sticks. “That should do it,” the voice said. “Now maybe we can see who we’re talking to.”
As the sticks caught and began to blaze, Willow squinted. Standing by her fire was a small person, far shorter even than herself, and delicately proportioned. The creature was not much more than three feet tall, quick and graceful, with a high musical voice and a great mane of dark hair that flowed like a cascade from a tied band atop its head. Beyond, huge against the night shadows, was the thing Willow had thought was a bird. She gasped as she realized that it was a bird, though a hundred times the size of any bird she had ever seen. Its curved beak was larger than she was, and the sweep of feather ridges above its big, orange eyes gave it an extremely angry look.
“Who are you?” Willow demanded, tearing her gaze away from the giant bird to glare at the tiny person by her fire.
“That’s a good question.” The stranger nodded. “Just the sort of question people should ask if they want to get acquainted. And it’s the very same question I had in mind. Who are you?”
“I’m Willow Summercloud,” she rasped. “If it’s any of your business.”
Turning toward the bird, the small creature trilled what might have been words, or might have been music—a series of complex vocal sounds ranging from low hisses to high dancing trills almost beyond hearing. The bird listened, then responded briefly with a deep piercing chirp that might have come from a mine shaft.
The small person turned again and shrugged. “Cawe likes your name well enough. But what he really wants to know is what you intend to do about those people messing up the mesa over there?”
“Where?” Willow stared at the creature. “What people? What mesa?”
“The one above the cliffs.” The small one pointed westward. “There are people up there making ice and setting fires and doing all sorts of things. What do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t intend to do anything about it, as far as I know,” Willow admitted. “Why should I?”
“You’re a dwarf, aren’t you? Don’t dwarves frown on humans coming into dwarf territory to perform magic?”
“Magic?” Willow shuddered. “They’re making magic?”
“They certainly are. That’s why Cawe came down from the peaks. His whole family is upset about it, you know. Magic isn’t good for raptors.”
“Is that what he … what your bird is? A raptor? I’ve never seen one.”
“Most people haven’t. Except me, I guess. I’ve seen several of them. Lately I’ve been living with them. But Cawe isn’t my bird. He’s his own bird. I just came along for the ride.”
“Oh, you did,” Willow muttered. “Then how about answering my question.”
“What question?”
“The one you didn’t answer. Who are you?”
“Oh! I guess I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m Shill. Actually, my name is Shillitec Medina Quickfoot, but Shill will do. How do you do?”
“How do I do what?”
“I don’t know. It’s just something people ask when they make themselves acquainted … isn’t it? Or has all that changed?”
The firelight was brighter now, and Willow’s eyes widened as she suddenly realized what kind of creature she was talking to. “You’re a kender!” she said.
“Of course I am,” the small one said. “Or at least I used to be, before that dumb Jass Bellbrush said I was for the birds. That was when I went to live with the raptors, and if what’s-his-name wants me to come back, he’ll have to find me first. But I am a kender, always have been, always will be.”
“But I’ve seen kender.” Willow stared. “You don’t look like the kender I’ve seen. You look like … like a girl!”
“Well, I should hope so!” Shill straightened, smoothing back thick, dark hair. “Because that’s what I am.” She looked around, spotted Willow’s pack, and stepped up to it, squatting to look inside. “Do you have anything to eat in here? I’m hungry.”
“Help yourself …” Willow started to say, then stopped, remembering what she had heard about kender. “No, don’t help yourself. I’ll get you something.” Quickly she went to the pack, brushing the kender aside. “What do you eat?”
“Probably anything,” Shill said.
Pulling a wrapped rabbit-haunch from the pack, Willow glanced up, directly into the fierce, curious eye of the giant bird, which had stepped nearer and leaned for a look. Startled, Willow scooted back, reaching for her axe. “How about him?” she asked the kender girl. “What … what does he eat?”
“About twice a month,” Shill said casually. “Don’t worry about Cawe. He gets his own food.”
Willow stared at the huge bird’s head with its great, curved beak and glaring eyes. “I’ll just bet he does,” she said.
Shill was looking eastward, where dim light grew above the peaks. “It will be morning, soon,” she said. “Cawe can take us over to the mesa where those people are, then you can decide what you are going to do about them.”
3
The Intruders
For almost fifty years, the Great Road of Passage had been in use. Starting in the plains south of the human city of Xak Tsaroth, the road
led westward toward the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains, then curved northwestward where it entered the dwarven lands. At a stone bridge of dwarven construction—no human of the time could have managed such a task—the road crossed the Great Gorge west of the broken lands, beneath the eastern shoulder of the massive peak called Sky’s End. There it turned north, skirting the rock-falls below the ruins of what had once been a Daewar fortress, curved long miles around the base of Sky’s End climbing toward a high pass, and from there led directly into the mountain fastness of the old dwarven realm of Kal-Thax. It was a mighty road carved into the very stone of the slopes. It wound northward, avoiding the dwarven settlements in the valleys and the meadows, to emerge finally at the northern border at the huge rift known as Tharkas Pass. Beyond there were realms of humans and others.
The road was the result of the first treaty ever struck between the dwarves of Thorbardin, fortress heart of Kal-Thax, and the humans of the southern plains. Willen Ironmaul, chieftain of the Hylar of Thorbardin, and a knight called Lord Charon had agreed that only by such means—a secured way of passage through the wilds of the dwarven ranges—could both of their realms be free of the hordes of refugees and migrants who were at the time a nuisance to the plains people and a serious threat to the mountain-dwelling dwarves.
The road carefully avoided the city of Xak Tsaroth, and at its plains end was guarded by knights of Eastern Ergoth, protecting those who traveled it against both the depredations of slavers and brigands raiding out of that great city, and the harassment of tariff collectors and armed bullies employed by the overlords of the city. More and more, as the years went by, the knightly orders of human Ergoth were becoming disenchanted with the sprawling, festering city which once had been their primary base. Some among them readily admitted to disenchantment with Ergoth itself.
Nearing the Gorge though, the Road of Passage crossed into dwarven lands. From there to Tharkas Pass, it was patrolled by troops of dwarves answering to the Thanes of Thorbardin. Here the purpose of the patrols was different. The dwarves were not there to protect the travelers. Those who came this way were mostly humans, but of many tribes and with many purposes. There were others, too, sometimes—ogres, though infrequently, and now and then a few kender or a band of wandering elves. On one occasion an entire colony of gnomes had spent nearly a month in the Falconhead Tunnel, before determined dwarves evicted them. The gnomes, it seemed, had somehow gotten stuck in the tunnel, then disagreed among themselves about how to get out and had appointed committees to resolve the issue—a process that, among gnomes, could take years. So a dwarven patrol had expedited their removal.
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