Hammer and Axe

by Dan Parkinson

  So the High Overlord sought another alliance. Beyond Kal-Thax, to the west, were other human realms, including the western Ergothian lands ruled by the emperor of Daltigoth.

  The High Overlord had chosen carefully, in selecting Quist Redfeather. Few humans had the Cobar’s knowledge of the wilderness, his talent for strategy, and his skill with weapons. The High Overlord knew Quist to be one of the leaders of the free Cobar who had almost succeeded in bringing down the overlords themselves.

  The attempt had almost succeeded, but at the last moment something had gone wrong. Soldiers of Xak Tsaroth had scattered the invading Cobar, capturing many of their leaders. Most of those now, of course, were dead—beheaded at the pleasure of the overlords. The rest had been sent away as slaves to be bartered in trade as far east as Istar. Only Quist Redfeather and his family had been spared, Quist to undertake a mission for the overlords, and his family to be held hostage as a guarantee of his cooperation.

  The mission was simple. Quist was to journey directly across the dwarven realm to the lands beyond and present to the king there the High Overlord’s proposal for a pact between Xak Tsaroth and Daltigoth, on each side of the dwarves, to join forces and conquer them, and then to split the profits.

  He could not cross on the dwarven Road of Passage, because he might be searched and the proposals found. It was assumed that something like that had befallen the overlord’s first such emissary several years before. The emissary had simply disappeared, somewhere between Xak Tsaroth and Daltigoth. So Quist must avoid the road. He must go alone, through the lands around Thorbardin and the wilderness beyond.

  And he did not even have a horse, because no horseman could have made it unseen through eastern Kal-Thax, where the dwarves were everywhere. It was almost the worst of insults, having to journey on foot. The Cobar were horsemen, probably the finest horsemen in all of Ergoth. A Cobar without his horse, it was said, was only half a Cobar.

  Quist had journeyed afoot halfway across Kal-Thax. The settled lands were behind him, but there was still a long way to go.

  Then, on this evening, Quist Redfeather had a stroke of luck. Rounding a bend in the streambed he stopped, faded into the underbrush, then stared. Just ahead, in a little clearing, stood three tired and lathered horses that could only be runaways.

  His fierce eyes brightened as he studied them. Fine animals, they were saddled and rigged, but not with human gear. The small saddles with their high stirrups were dwarven work, as was the light, oiled mail of their saddle skirts.

  But a saddle could be modified.

  Through the night, Quist Redfeather kept watch on the stray horses. No one came to collect them; they were alone. With morning he gathered them in, removed their gear, and went to work to outfit one of them for himself.

  7

  A Time of Testing

  The morning sun was still behind the eastern peaks when Damon Omenborn and Tag Salan reached the foot of Sheercliff. From the rising slopes below the massive wall, they scanned the cliff’s face—miles of sheer, precipitous stone standing above slopes that in some places rose to within fifty feet of the lip, but in other places were three times that below it. The cliff was not a flat wall, as it appeared from a distance. The stone was weathered and rough, and the line of the cliff curved in and out erratically. But much of it was visible from the approaching slopes, and by first light of dawn Tag saw something interesting a mile or so south of where they had approached.

  “The slope has fresh-broken stone atop the old rubble,” he pointed out. “As though someone has been digging. Let’s take a look.”

  “You look.” Damon nodded. “I’m going up there. I want to see what’s atop this wall before the sun tops the horizon.”

  “Have a care, Damon,” Tag warned him. “If those wizards are up there, as you suspect, they won’t welcome you.”

  “Have a care, yourself,” Damon told him. “Don’t forget what we came here to find in the first place. Where that thing came from, there might be others like it.”

  “I’ll just have a look over there where the rubble is, then follow you up.” Tag turned and trotted away, south along the foot of the cliff.

  Slinging his hammer and shield on his back, Damon selected a place and began to climb. For a human, scaling such a wall without pitons and line would have been almost impossible. But Damon was not human. He was a dwarf, and like most dwarves he had learned to climb almost before he learned to walk. The rugged face of the cliff offered handholds and toeholds in abundance, until he was within twenty feet of the top. Then, suddenly, he came to smooth stone.

  “Wind-scour,” he muttered. Reluctantly, he unslung his hammer and began to make his own holds, chipping away expertly at the rock, hoping that the sound would not carry to anyone who might be up there.

  The climbing was slower now, since he needed to pause at each hold to make another one above, but he kept going and soon was striking his final hold just below the brushy rim of the escarpment. When it was completed he slung his hammer again, pulled himself up, and peered over—directly into bright eyes in a small, curious face beneath a tied pile of flowing hair.

  “Hello, there!” the creature said softly. “You made so much noise that I was afraid you might wake up those wizards, but I guess you didn’t.”

  With a heave, Damon pulled himself over the edge of the cliff, stared for a moment at the chatty little thing, then rose to a crouch and gazed around.

  “Oh, good!” the small creature said. “Another dwarf! Well, you’ll be useful, I imagine. You’re a lot bigger than my dwarf. Of course, she’s just a girl. Do you have a sword or a spear or anything? Or just that hammer? My dwarf has an axe.”

  Crouching, Damon scanned the terrain carefully. Not far away, a hundred yards back from the cliff’s edge and just north of him, was what appeared to be a camp. A long, sagging shelter of saplings and layered brush was surrounded by a jumble of tied packs, cut poles, and various crude vessels. Beyond, the grassy flat was burned and blackened for several hundred yards, almost to the wooded slope that climbed away toward distant peaks. The mesa was narrow here, encroached by a shoulder of the nearest mountain.

  Beside him, almost at his shoulder, the creature with the tied hair chattered on happily in a high, musical voice. “… waiting for me over there in those trees,” it said. “Of course, Cawe isn’t there. He let us off higher up the slope, and he’s probably gone on up to tell the others that we brought help.”

  Damon ignored the chatter. At the brush shelter, he saw movement, and someone stepped out into the slanted sunlight. It was a man, a tall, skinny human male with a long, untended gray beard and a head that was bald except around the edges. As he stepped out into the sunlight and straightened, he donned a dirty, smoke-stained pointed hat that might once have been white. His attire was equally filthy, a long, loose white robe, belted at the waist with a piece of rope. The robe might once have hung to the ground, but it looked as though the hems had been burned away. It fell to midcalf only, exposing a pair of thin, awkward legs and two very large feet in sandals.

  “… usually wakes up first,” the high voice at Damon’s shoulder chattered. “I don’t think he sleeps as well as the others. But they’ll be up before long. Then you can decide what to do about them. My dwarf doesn’t seem to have any good ideas.”

  At the brush shelter, the robed man yawned, scratched vigorously under one arm, and turned toward a pile of sticks a few steps away. He started toward it, then seemed to change his mind. Raising a long, thin arm he held it before him for a moment, then pointed a commanding finger at the pile of sticks. Obediently, several bits of wood atop the stack rose into the air, turned this way and that, then drifted toward the man to fall at his feet, arranging themselves into a cone of kindling. The man said something, and the kindling burst into flame.

  Damon realized that his mouth was open and closed it with a click of hard teeth. Magic! The wizards everyone was looking for were here, on Sheercliff! He had found them.

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nbsp; “… might be best for the two of you to talk it over,” the chattering voice was saying. “That’s a good idea. I’ll go get my dwarf, and the two of you can make a plan.”

  Damon shuddered in revulsion. He had never seen magic before and had never wanted to. But now he was sure that whatever had happened to him and his companions, causing the death of Copper Blueboot, had indeed been an act of magic. His brows lowering in distaste, he grunted, then glanced around, suddenly aware of what the chattering voice at his shoulder had been saying.

  “Dwarf?” he said. “What dwarf?”

  But there was no one there. Whoever and whatever the small creature was, it was gone.

  “What was that all about?” Damon muttered. He shifted to a better position, eased the slings on his shield and hammer, and turned his attention again to the camp. Three wizards. One was awake, and the other two would be awake soon. Even as he thought it, a second man stepped out of the lean-to, straightening and stretching long arms in the early sunlight. Though not quite as tall as the first one, this man looked stronger. He was wide-shouldered and sturdy, and his posture was that of a strong, athletic person. Under a wide-brimmed brown hat, his face was full-bearded, a substantial brush of brown whiskers that would have done justice to a dwarf.

  He wore a shortcoat of tanned hide with a fur collar and wide fur cuffs. His leggings were of simple buckskin, and he wore high, sturdy boots. The only element of bright color in his garb was the wide shoulder-sling of his leather pouch. The sling strap was dyed bright red.

  He went to the woodpile, gathered an armload of sticks, and returned to the little fire. Squatting easily, he laid sticks across the fire, then set a metal pot atop them, poured water into it from a flask, and began peeling a potato.

  Behind him, a third man stepped from the shelter, hunched and scuttling in a crablike shuffle as he walked past the others to turn full around, shading his eyes with a pale hand. Damon could see little of his features. A floppy black hat shaded him, and the high collar of his dark, full coat hid his face. Below the coat, a stained robe hung nearly to the ground.

  As the dark one turned toward Damon, he paused, then leaned to peer harder. Damon froze in place, hidden in the brush. He felt as though the human was looking directly at him. After a moment, though, the man continued his full-circle scrutiny, then stepped to the fire and sat beside it, warming his hands.

  Damon waited long minutes, but nothing further occurred. The three at the fire were simply preparing breakfast. Rather, the one with the red strap was preparing breakfast, while the other two waited for it. The dark one sat there warming his hands, and the tall skinny one was removing things from a pack. At first Damon supposed they might be dishes, but then the man held one up, studying it, and it caught the sun’s rays. It was a mirror. The man was unpacking mirrors.

  When he was certain that there were no more humans in the group, Damon made up his mind. Though wilderness, this was still dwarven land, and these people were trespassers. Crouching, moving carefully, he worked his way to a patch of brush only yards from the camp, then with shield and hammer in hand he stood and stalked toward them.

  “You people don’t belong here!” he said sternly.

  Three surprised faces turned toward him. The dark-coated one scooted back, hissing an oath. The white-robe squeaked, stumbled over his own feet, and dropped one of his mirrors. It shattered on the ground. The one squatting by the fire turned, gazed curiously at the armed dwarf, then carefully set aside his potato and knife, and stood. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “We don’t pardon those who trespass in Kal-Thax,” Damon said levelly. “And especially not those who attack us. Do you deny doing a magic to us yesterday that cost the life of a friend of mine?”

  “You …” The dark scuttler got to his feet, staring at Damon in disbelief. “Are you telling us that you are one of those? That’s preposterous! I killed all three!”

  “So it was you,” Damon rumbled. “Well, you did kill one of us, wizard. Copper Blueboot is dead. His horse fell on him. You have that to answer for. That”—he looked at each of them, one after another—“and trespassing on lands held by the thanes of Thorbardin. What are you doing here?”

  The dark, hunched one hissed again and began a chant of some sort, but the leather-clad one hushed him. Turning back to Damon, he said, “My name is Megistal. This is Tantas, and over there is Sigamon. We are here because …”

  “Shut up!” the white-robe snapped. “We agreed not to tell anyone about that!”

  “Well, we’ve been found!” Megistal snapped back. “This one’s questions deserve answers.” He tipped his head, studying Damon carefully. “So you are a dwarf,” he said. “I haven’t ever seen one up close. Are you really one of those that Tantas killed … or thought he killed?”

  “I did kill them!” Tantas rasped. “I know what went into my spell, and those dwarves are dead. No one could have lived through that.”

  “You aren’t answering my questions,” Damon pointed out.

  “We are surveyors,” Megistal said, his hands hushing the other two. “Surveyors for the Orders of High Sorcery. We are here to prepare a site for a Tower of High Sorcery.”

  “This is where we will build it,” the white-robed one chirped. “It will be good for everyone.”

  “Like rust you will,” Damon assured the man. “No tower, no sorcery, no humans on dwarven property. You are not welcome here.”

  “And who are you to command us?” Megistal asked.

  “I am Damon Omenborn, of Thane Hylar of Thorbardin.”

  “And what is your authority in such matters?”

  “I live in this land,” Damon said levelly. “You don’t.”

  “Is that your name for this land, then? Thorbardin?”

  “This land is Kal-Thax. Thorbardin is its fortress. Now …” With his hammer, he pointed at Megistal, and then at the glaring Sigamon. “You and you, I ask you once, politely, to pack your possessions and leave Kal-Thax as quickly as you can, by the way you came. Leave, and don’t come back.” Turning to Tantas, he added, “You won’t be leaving. Copper Blueboot was my friend, and I claim right of challenge.”

  “You claim what?” Tantas stared at him. “Are you … do you mean to challenge me?”

  “You are challenged,” Damon said.

  With a hiss, Tantas muttered, “Mordit tat!” He pointed a stiff finger at the dwarf. “Chapak!”

  Instantly a large sword appeared in the air directly in front of Damon and slashed at him. He caught it on his shield, deflecting it, and it disappeared with a pop and a puff of dark smoke.

  “Magic,” Damon Omenborn mumbled to himself. “That seemed like a sword. But it was no sword. It was only magic.”

  Tantas gaped at the dwarf. “Impossible!” he grumbled. Again he voiced a sharp command, and a steel-tipped arrow drove into Damon’s breastplate, piercing his armor. The impact of it tumbled him backward.

  An agony like none he had ever felt tore through Damon, driving the breath from his lungs and the sight from his eyes. The arrow had pierced him through. But how could it be an arrow? No bow had flung it. “Magic,” he gasped, fighting for control of the pain that seared within him. “There is no arrow. Magic is only magic, nothing more.”

  Tantas gaped again. The fallen dwarf was getting to his feet. He stood looking down at the glistening shaft standing in his breast. Pain shone in his eyes, but at the same time something else kindled there. The dwarf’s jaws tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “I only imagine this,” he whispered. “It is not real.” Gritting his teeth, he struck the shaft with the edge of his shield. The arrow broke and disappeared as the sword had.

  “I don’t believe this!” Tantas shrilled. Frantically, he began another spell, this one far more elaborate.

  “That’s enough,” Damon growled. More quickly than a human could have imagined possible, he swung his hammer and threw it. Tantas tried to duck aside, and the other mages tried to weave spells, but it was too late. The bi
g hammer hummed through the air, struck the dark wizard directly in the face, and carried him backward to sprawl flat on the hard ground.

  Stunned and shocked, the other two wizards hurried to their companion, knelt beside him, and pulled back his high collar. Inside, where there had once been a face, now there was only blood oozing from smashed features.

  “He’s dead!” Sigamon screeched. “The dwarf killed him!”

  Damon stepped past them, retrieved his hammer, and wiped it clean on the fallen wizard’s sleeve. “He accepted my challenge,” he said flatly. “He lost. Now, you two, I’ll give you one hour to pack your things.”

  In a rage, Sigamon stood, whirled toward the dwarf, and threw a spell that sizzled from both of his hands like burning ice. Again the dwarf was thrown to the ground, and this time his shield and hammer were torn from his grip.

  Dimly, he heard Megistal say, “Sigamon, don’t! This is a phenomenon we must study. Somehow this creature has resisted magic. We must know how!”

  “No!” Sigamon panted, holding his spell in place as Damon struggled against it. “No, he’s far too dangerous. Maybe magic won’t kill him, but falling from a cliff will. Stand back!”

  Struggling, trying to break free of the searing pain of the spell that held him, Damon felt himself rise and saw the ground move beneath him. Slowly he began to float toward the edge of Sheercliff. He gritted his teeth, waved and kicked, and abruptly fell to the ground. But before he could get to his feet the spell had him again, lifting him. Turning and tumbling in the air, he had a glimpse of the bulging eyes, the straining features of the white wizard. Sigamon was putting every ounce of his strength into his magic.