Hammer and Axe

by Dan Parkinson

  For the dwarves, the main reason for patrolling the road was to make sure that those who traveled the road stayed on the road and did not stray into dwarven habitat. In Kal-Thax, long ago, the dwarves had forbidden humans or anyone else to settle in and take root. Kal-Thax was for dwarves, and only for dwarves, and the dwarves liked it that way.

  Further, in the past few centuries, the dwarves had learned that where humans were, magic would come to be also. Even more than among the elves, there were humans who were fascinated by magic, who grasped it and used it, who practiced it as a dwarf might practice stonemasonry or carpentry.

  The dwarves who patrolled the Road of Passage had an excellent record of keeping travelers contained and moving. In fifty years, no more than a handful of humans and one or two ogres had managed to escape from the road and avoid patrols. The exception to the record was kender. The wandering little people were, simply, uncontainable. A kender went where whim directed, and no patrol captain had ever found a way to keep kender on the road if they decided to take off in some other direction. The dwarves had long since stopped trying to keep kender out of Kal-Thax. It wasn’t worth the effort, and aside from being casual thieves and general nuisances, kender were not a threat.

  More than any other race, the dwarves agreed, human settlements and humans on the loose must not be tolerated in the realm governed by the thanes of Thorbardin.

  When Gran Stonemill and the Neidar company arrived at the Great Road, there was no one on it, and he felt a sense of relief. Gran Stonemill was of Einar descent and had lost ancestors to the wandering hordes of outsiders who had come into these lands in the old days, before the Pact of Exclusion. The road, he knew, was a good idea, but just the sight of outsiders—particularly humans—journeying across Kal-Thax, so close to the scattered fields and villages of the mountain people, was still unsettling to him.

  But the road was deserted now. Three hundred feet wide and bordered by high walls of fine dwarven crafting, it wound away southward toward the Great Gorge and northward toward Tharkas Pass, and no one was in sight on the few miles visible from the western crest. At Redrock, though, they found the company of Neidar guards assigned there, and Gran got their report.

  Mages, the guard officer told him. Three human mages had entered the road somewhere in Ergoth and had followed it at least beyond the Gorge, where dwarven guards held the bridge. The three had crossed the bridge and had not returned. Drum signals had gone out, alerting those farther on to keep an eye on the humans. But they had not reached Redrock, and a scouting party had gone all the way back to the bridge and found no trace of them. Somewhere along that stretch, the three had left the road. Now, presumably, they were roaming around Kal-Thax, doing whatever humans afflicted with the abomination of magic did.

  A search had been conducted, expanding out twelve miles either side of the road, and no trace of them had been found.

  Gran shivered at the news. Like any dwarf, his distaste for magic and those who practiced it was intense. Magic was not reasonable. It followed no natural pattern and no natural rules. It was, purely and simply, an abomination.

  Like most dwarves, Gran Stonemill had never actually seen a wizard, so far as he knew, and had only the sketchiest idea of what magic-users were capable of doing with their craft. But the stories he had heard told him not to underestimate the power of magic, and his own experience told him to expect the worst of any human. Climbing the sentinel tower, he turned slowly, scanning the mountain terrain, trying to guess what purpose human magicians might have in coming to the dwarvenlands. Certainly the three had a reason for journeying to Kal-Thax, and obviously they didn’t want the dwarves to know why they were there.

  But what was the reason, and where had the wizards gone? The mountain land was vast; they could be anywhere.

  North? Probably not. Had the three been heading north, they could simply have stayed on the road, where travel was permitted by treaty—even for wizards—and was far easier for humans than cross-country travel in these mountains. Probably not east, either. There lay the Kharolis foothills and, beyond, the plains of human Ergoth. And due east from the Redrock Peaks was the human city of Xak Tsaroth. If the wizards had been heading for Xak Tsaroth from the lower plains, they wouldn’t have come into the mountains in the first place. And having gone to the trouble to come from Ergoth to here, it wasn’t reasonable that they would leave the road and go into hiding, just to go back where they came from.

  Gran gazed westward, troubled and puzzled, to where the Kharolis Mountains climbed away into blue distance, range after range of rugged peaks. What was there for wizards? In the valleys and on the slopes there were the fields and settlements of the Neidar, and beyond them the widely scattered Einar. For a hundred miles or so, there were dwarven habitations scattered here and there throughout the mountains. And beyond that was the wilderness. The Bigtooth range lay there, and beyond it the Anviltops, and beyond them … who knew what lay beyond? There was nothing but more mountains.

  Gran turned slowly, his gaze swinging southward. Beyond the Redrock Peaks, hazy with distance, stood the mighty eminence of Sky’s End, thrusting a thousand feet above any other prominence. And beyond Sky’s End was Thorbardin. The Neidar’s eyes narrowed. What would humans seek in dwarven lands? What did humans always seem to seek? Conquest. And where would one go if one intended to conquer the dwarven lands? Thorbardin. There, deep beneath the surface of Cloudseeker Mountain, was the stronghold of the dwarves.

  Had the wizards aimed for Thorbardin? But why? Even if they knew of the place, they would never be allowed inside. Southgate, on the far side facing the Thunder Peaks and the Daergar mines there, was complete now, with a massive, steel-sheathed gate that could be closed at a moment’s notice—a gate that was impregnable. Not even magic could penetrate Southgate. Not even dragons, or the mightiest armies, could ever breach it.

  Northgate, facing Sky’s End and the broken lands bordering Ergoth, did not yet have its gate in place, but it, too, was heavily guarded. At the first sign of trouble, thousands of armed dwarves would mount a defense in the great shaft of Anvil’s Echo. Not even magicians would be able to negotiate the suspended bridge from one end to the other of that great chamber, with sling-stones, javelins, and bolts coming at them from the murder holes which lined the way.

  Then a memory struck Gran Stonemill, and his jaws clenched. There was another way in! Though it had been sealed for nine decades, the old Daewar tunnel beneath Sky’s End was still there, unused and practically forgotten. Delved by the gold-molders a hundred years ago, straight through Sky’s End into the subterranean caverns beneath Cloudseeker, the tunnel had been the means by which the caverns which now were Thorbardin had first been occupied.

  It was sealed. But could the seals stand against magic spells?

  Gran practically flew down the sentinel ladder and signaled to his Neidar. When they were assembled, he divided them into five squads of ten each. Four would take up the search for the wizards where the road guards had stopped. Twelve miles west of the Road of Passage, they would form a cordon and sweep westward, searching. The fifth squadron he would take himself, directly south to Thorbardin, to see the Council of Thanes. It was time to speak of magic and to take another look at the old, original entrance to the undermountain fortress.

  Megistal stood alone atop the escarpment of Sheercliff as another sunrise announced itself above the mountain peaks. Standing at the very edge of a precipitous, hundred-foot drop, the wizard sighed and shook his head in annoyance, ignoring the bickering of his two companions some distance behind him. He was not standing there, gazing eastward, for the sake of the view. He was standing there because it was the surest place to keep his back turned to the other two wizards who were scurrying about and throwing angry words at each other.

  Just at the moment, Megistal wanted nothing at all to do with either of them. He was exasperated with them both, and so angry that he wasn’t sure what he would do if they crossed his vision right now. He was afra
id he might lose his self-control and hit them both with a spell so terrible that he would regret it. But he knew he would not. The deep, secret magics granted to him and only a few others by the Scions were not for selfish use, even in exasperation. Still, he growled at the very thought of Tantas and Sigamon.

  Not only had they wasted an entire, exhausting day of surveying this blasted mesa, they had virtually wiped out the work that had been done before. Megistal didn’t know which of them he blamed more, the lanky, self-righteous Sigamon or the scuttling, sneering Tantas.

  Tantas had started it, of course. In a simple survey spell with his dark stones, he had added something extra. He just couldn’t resist showing off his destructive powers, it seemed, and the spell had gotten entirely out of hand. Instead of simply marking a survey point with his lightning, the dark wizard had started a grass fire which swept across great segments of the flat mesa top, propelled by mountain winds.

  And then Sigamon, instead of simply dousing the fire with a rain spell, had decided to show off his own powers, and the resulting, sudden ice storm had blinded them all for long minutes while the fires continued to burn unchecked. Scorched and shivering, Megistal had finally managed to put an end to the runaway results of the magics by cloaking the entire mesa in a dense downpour of rain.

  But the damage was done. At least half of the survey stakes they had worked so long to set, stakes that marked the closing area of the precise point they had finally found, were either burned away or blown up by quick-frost. The Stone of Threes was in place, but all of the lines of power would have to be restaked if there was ever to be a Tower of High Sorcery in this part of Ansalon.

  “I can’t believe it,” Megistal muttered to himself as the other two wandered around trying to relocate some of the test points so laboriously established. The wizard was beginning to wonder if the tower was worth the aggravation.

  All that had occurred two days ago, and Megistal still couldn’t bring himself to speak a civil word to the other wizards. But now another day was dawning, and they had dawdled enough. They had work to do, and it wouldn’t get done by itself.

  He started to turn away from the cliff’s edge, then paused as movement caught his eye. High above, first sunlight glinted on something moving. He raised his eyes, then sighed. It was only a bird, a hawk of some kind, soaring high above. He had the impression that it was a large bird, but it was hard to tell. He watched it for a moment, then lowered his gaze and tensed. Other movement was visible now, far off but clear. On the slopes beyond the canyons that footed Sheercliff, three specks moved, coming toward him. He squinted, shading his eyes, then spread his arms, raised them, and lowered them, describing an arc. He stepped back from the cliff’s edge, muttered an incantation, and the arc he had made became visible, a ring of shimmering gray like a circle of fog. Again Megistal muttered, and within the ring shapes became clear: three armed, mounted dwarves, magnified as though seen through a lens. They appeared to be only a hundred feet away, instead of the span of miles where they appeared as only specks.

  Sigamon and Tantas had ceased their bickering and came to join him. “Ah, we have company,” Tantas rasped. “Dwarves, I believe.”

  “Most likely you attracted them with your cursed fire,” Sigamon said haughtily.

  “Or you with your swirling ice,” Tantas growled. “Well, we have no time for dwarves right now.” He raised his right arm and started to chant a spell, but Megistal stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

  “What are you doing?” the red wizard hissed.

  “I’m going to kill them.” Tantas shook free. “Get out of my way.”

  “Kill them?” Sigamon stared at the hunched wizard with the black hat. “Why kill them? They are of no consequence.”

  “But they’re coming this way,” Tantas pointed out. “If they find us, they might signal for others to come. That could delay us no end.”

  “There is that.” Sigamon shrugged. “Well, be merciful about it then. I do not share your penchant for causing pain … unless, of course, it is for a worthy cause.”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Megistal snapped. “There is no reason to kill those dwarves. I shall simply give them an illusion to lead them away.”

  Without waiting for argument, the red wizard raised a hand, pointed, and muttered, “Oviat devis duon! Chapak!” In the viewing ring, the three dwarves blinked, drew rein, and turned their heads this way and that in obvious confusion. One of them lifted a mesh faceplate, squinted, and rubbed a hand across his eyes, then pointed off to the right, his beard twitching as he spoke to the others. The gold-bearded one beside him shrugged and nodded, but the third one—the largest one—shook his head. He gestured, indicating his horse and theirs, and lifted his reins, saying something. Then he pointed straight ahead.

  “Blast!” Megistal said. “He knows it is an illusion. But how? I used first-order magic.”

  “Illusion!” Tantas scoffed. “Soft magic!”

  “Interesting,” Sigamon murmured, stepping closer to the view ring. “Look at him, how he squints. It is as though he sees your illusion, but also sees through it. See, he is showing the others. Maybe you should rethink your spells, Megistal. This one lacks potency.”

  The big dwarf flicked his reins and rode straight ahead, and the others followed him. After a few yards they all blinked, stared, and pointed.

  “They’ve broken free of the spell,” Sigamon said. “They have no trouble seeing clearly.”

  Megistal scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Have either of you ever used magic against dwarves before?”

  “Only to shield ourselves in passage,” Sigamon admitted. “Why?”

  “Dwarves hate magic, I understand,” Megistal said. “I’m just wondering if …”

  Tantas ignored the other two. Again he raised his arm, brought it down, and hissed, “Dagat mordem! Chapak!”

  Abruptly the viewing ring blazed with intense light, and out on the far slopes a ball of blue-white fire grew, engulfing the distant riders. It was gone as quickly as it came, but the scene in the ring was startlingly different. Where before there had been three riders coming down a lush slope, surrounded by low vegetation, now there was smoke, blowing ash, and the blackened forms of three fallen dwarves. The only things moving were three terrified horses, galloping away toward the east, and the lingering smoke that drifted on the wind.

  “That settles that,” Tantas chuckled. “They are dead. There is nothing wrong with my spells.”

  Megistal stared at the hunched wizard in disgust, then turned away. The viewing ring winked out.

  “So you killed three dwarves,” Sigamon sneered. “Your spell was still faulty, though. Those horses didn’t seem injured at all. Only frightened.”

  “Dumb animals,” Tantas rasped. “Magic sometimes doesn’t touch animals, remember? The Scions told us that.” He swung away, then turned back to snap, “I could have killed the horses, too, if I had wanted to try another spell. I could have dropped boulders on the brutes. Magic may not be real to them, but boulders are.”

  “I don’t understand the big to-do,” carped Sigamon, “over three simple dwarves.”

  4

  Northgate

  The Northgate entrance to Thorbardin, when completed, would be the mirror image of Southgate—a perfectly delved, iron-framed opening in a wall of solid granite that faced onto a wide walled ledge high on the mountainside of Cloudseeker Peak. The sheer granite wall itself was reinforced with an unseen mesh of iron bars drilled into the stone so that it could not be cracked or shattered by even the greatest force. The frame of the opening was polished iron, fourteen feet wide and two feet thick.

  Running through the gatehouse behind the opening was a huge screw set in a threaded stone shaft lined with graphite and geared to a waterwheel drive. The screw itself, and its twin—nearly thirty miles away at Southgate —were the two largest single artifacts of solid steel ever produced in dwarven foundries … or in any foundries. Each contained a year’s production of iron, coke,
and nickel from the Daergar’s best mines, and each had taken nine years to forge, mill, and polish into final shape. Just within the opening on the mountainside was a large, delved area that served as outer gatehouse. The great gate resting there now, ready to be mounted on the screw, was identical to the one in use at Southgate—a massive plug of metal-clad stone, grooved to ride on ranked steel rails set in floor, ceiling, and walls of the gateway. Once mounted, it would be closed by turning the screw to drive it into the opening.

  When first planned, Thorbardin’s gates had been envisioned as hinged plugs, an effective closure developed by Daewar delvers in times long past. But as the great fortress grew, and the skills of Daewar, Theiwar, and Daergar blended with the crafts of the Hylar, many plans had been modified and improved. A hinged plug could be circumvented by intruders, given the time and the tools to work on it. A screw-driven plug, internally operated and driven flush into a sleeved opening, could not.

  It had been the intention of the original architects of Thorbardin—many of whom still directed the thousands of tasks that went into the project—that the fortress be impregnable to outside attack. Within Thorbardin were the finest craftsmen, the greatest delvers and builders, and the best fortress-planners in the world, and being dwarves they were not adverse to hard work. With its gates in place and working, backed by the great defense passages called Anvil’s Echo—huge tunnels two hundred feet high, lined with murder holes and passable only by a narrow bridge suspended halfway up—Thorbardin would be difficult if not impossible to enter for anyone the dwarves decided to keep out.