by Don Perrin
“Not necessarily!” Mortar picked up the thread of his brother’s thought and ran with it. “Venting the heat outside would be wasteful. But if you ran the pipes into Thorbardin, you could use the heat from the forge to—Selquist, why are you banging your head against the wall?”
“Never mind,” Selquist said bitterly. He really had to put together a new team. “Just stop your yammering and come with me.”
Selquist turned to his right and stalked off. Raising his lantern, he flashed it over one of the largest forges the dwarves had ever seen. Huge cauldrons, suspended on enormous chains, hung over gigantic fire pits. An underground stream fed into a dwarf-made lake used to cool the molten iron.
A few broken tools lay scattered about the floor, but the thrifty dwarves had long ago carried off anything useful before walling up this area.
The dwarves stared in awed silence, picturing the hundreds of dwarves sweating and toiling in the light of the roaring forge fires, hearing the ringing blows of hammer on iron, the sizzle of the hot ore plunging into the water, the steam rising up like wraiths out of the turgid water.
Pestle walked over, picked up a pair of broken tongs, and ran his hand over it lovingly. Selquist was half-Daergar and half-Neidar. Pestle was suspected of being at least half-Hylar, or mountain dwarf. He was fascinated with forging. He had once been apprenticed to the village blacksmith, but the disappearance of several steel coins from the smith’s money box led to heated words and Pestle’s eventual dismissal. Pestle’s ambition was to acquire money enough to open his own smithy.
Selquist flashed his lantern overhead, illuminating the remnants of a system of large iron pipes that would vent the heat from the forge, carry the heat to the inhabited portions of Thorbardin. The iron had long since rusted and corroded, leaving scraps of pipe strewn across the tops of the forges.
Selquist climbed up onto one of the enormous stone hearths, set his lantern down. From there, he grabbed onto a dangling chain and shinnied up it until he was opposite the hole. It was about as wide as he was tall. With the agility of a spider (which Selquist’s detractors said he rather resembled), the scrawny dwarf swung from the chain into the hole and disappeared.
The three dwarves waiting below were startled, but before they could say anything, Selquist reappeared, grinning and waving. “Come on!”
His companions, who weighed considerably more and who were not built for leaping blithely from chains into holes, glanced at each other dubiously. Auger shook his head.
“I’ll help you!” Selquist said.
“What about the lantern?” Mortar asked.
“Douse it and leave it there. We’ll need it on the way back.”
The dwarves clambered up onto the hearth and climbed the chain, Pestle in the lead. Selquist held out his hands. Pestle swung over to the hole. Selquist grabbed the dwarf, helped him down off the chain without mishap. The other two made it with only minor difficulties—such as Auger swinging himself into the wall instead of the hole—but eventually all four dwarves were crouched, safe and sound, inside the hole. Selquist took the lead.
The opening narrowed considerably, forcing the dwarves to drop to their hands and knees and crawl. It ran horizontally for twenty feet, then turned to the right and extended on for another twenty feet. By this time, they could all see light at the end of the pipe, beyond an iron grating.
Once they reached the grating, Selquist cautioned his friends to silence and peered out to see if anyone was in the tunnels underneath.
The tunnels were empty. Swiftly, Selquist removed several bolts from the grating—he’d had the foresight to loosen these bolts on his previous trip—and swung the grating open.
“Hurry!” he whispered. “And keep quiet!”
Selquist held the grate while the other three exited. They tumbled out onto the floor of a torch-lit corridor. Unlike the abandoned shafts through which they had been walking, the corridor had every sign of being well-traveled. It was clean, well-lit, and they could hear voices, very faint and far away.
They looked up at Selquist, who was still in the pipe.
“People live here?” Pestle gulped.
“Of course, people live here,” Selquist returned. “It’s difficult to steal from people if there aren’t any people to steal from! Now, shut up and take these.”
Selquist handed down several objects wrapped in cloth, which he’d left inside the pipe on his previous visit.
“What are they? Burglar tools?” Pestle asked Mortar.
“No,” said Mortar, on the receiving end. “They’re brooms.”
“Brooms!” The three glowered up at Selquist.
“I’ll explain in a minute.”
Letting the grating fall, Selquist squeezed out and dropped to the floor himself. Grinning in triumph, he turned to his companions.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “As our friend Mortar has already said once today, welcome to Thorbardin.”
The three did not share his glee. They were staring at him and at each other in dismay. All were covered, from beard to boots, in greasy black soot.
Mortar tried in vain to wipe off the soot, succeeded only in smearing it across his face.
“We can’t go waltzing around Thorbardin looking like this!” he spluttered. “They’ll think we’re … we’re gully dwarves or something and slap us in jail for sure!”
“Nonsense,” Selquist said. “And don’t wipe that off. It’s the ideal disguise. I used it myself with much success on my last trip here. Here, each of you take a broom. Now, if anyone asks, we’re chimney sweeps!”
The eyes of the three soot-covered dwarves widened. They continued to gaze at Selquist, but now it was with admiration. This was why he was their leader.
They shouldered their brooms and marched off down the corridor. Rounding that corridor, they stepped out onto a balcony overlooking Thorbardin.
Each halted, awe-struck. The view was magnificent.
The entire nation of Thorbardin is housed inside the Kharolis mountains. Here are seven major cities, three farming warrens, two governmental areas, a fortress at Northgate and Southgate, and the City of the Dead. From their vantage point, the dwarves could see only a small portion of the vast delvings, but what they saw was enough to stop their breath.
Their village of Celebundin, of which they were rightly proud, could have been dropped intact into this vast hall and made hardly a splotch at the bottom.
Far off, in the distance, they could see the famed Life Tree of the Hylar, the enormous stalactite that was a self-contained, heavily fortified city. Its many stone turrets and towers, stairs and walkways housed everything from important government offices and private residences to gardens and shops.
If an enemy did manage to break through the stone gates of the mountain, the dwarves could withdraw into the Life Tree and hold out against a besieging army for—by some estimates—a hundred years.
By that time most besieging armies would have lost interest.
Three of the dwarves stepped up to the railing of the balcony and looked down.
Auger stayed behind, his back firmly against solid rock. He got dizzy just climbing a tree. When the others leaned over the balcony to take a look below, Auger shut his eyes and grabbed hold of a piece of the wall.
“That’s the Seventh Road down there.” Selquist pointed out the sights. “We’re just north of the West Guardian Hall, which enters the Valley of the Thanes. We’ll go north along this road, then skirt around the West Warrens. Then, we head straight for Theiwar territory. Once there, we can relax.”
At this, even Auger’s eyes opened.
“Theiwar!” Mortar repeated. “You didn’t say anything about the Theiwar!”
“They’re bad dwarves,” Pestle said.
“We’re bad dwarves,” Selquist pointed out.
“It’s not the same,” Pestle muttered.
“They’re vampires,” Auger said in a low voice. “They drink blood, and they hang from the roofs of their caves by their feet, and if the sunligh
t hits them they vanish in a puff of green smoke.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” Selquist glared at him.
“My Nana told me,” Auger replied.
“Mortar, explain,” Selquist said.
Mortar explained that the Theiwar, through years of living underground had indeed formed an aversion to sunlight but that this did not make them vampires. And though generally conceded to harbor dark and twisted ambitions of dominating all the other races of dwarves and therefore shunned by all other races of dwarves, the Theiwar did not eat dwarven babies, as was popularly maintained.
And, yes, they were the only race of dwarves with any interest whatsoever in practicing magic but, though this showed them lacking in common sense, it did not necessarily make them bad people.
While Mortar was thus learnedly discoursing, Selquist herded his team over to a staircase, which was cut out of the rock wall and zig-zagged down the side of the cliff.
“I can’t!” Auger gasped, clinging to the wall. The tallest tree in the forests in their valley would look like a sprig from this far above.
“Who ever heard of a second-story man afraid of heights?” Selquist demanded.
“I’m more a cellar man, myself,” Auger said, quavering.
“Shut your eyes and hold onto my hand,” Selquist said finally. “We’ll guide you down. That’s the Seventh Road down there.”
Dwarves always take a no-nonsense approach to names (with the exception of Selquist’s mother), and the road was known as the Seventh Road because it was the seventh road leading out from Northgate, where began the First Road.
Slowly, with Auger painfully clutching their hands, the dwarves made their descent.
Chapter Twelve
The four traveled north along the Seventh Road. No one stopped them or even paid much attention to them. Most of the Hylar they passed seemed unaware of their very existence, although several matronly dwarves did cross the street, gathering up their skirts to avoid brushing against the filthy sweeps. One wedding party actually halted long enough for the bride to shake hands with Selquist, it being well-known that shaking hands with a sweep brings luck.
They were just dragging Auger away from ogling the bride, when, rounding a bend, they were accosted by four unusually tall dwarves wearing highly ornamented breastplates and huge battle-axes at their belts.
Auger knew immediately that they’d been apprehended. Giving a whimper, he started to sink to his knees, intending to throw himself on the mercy of the court.
“What’s that idiot doing!” Selquist hissed. “Mortar, pick him up! Pestle, bring him in here!”
Mortar propped Auger up from behind. Pestle pulled from the front. Selquist herded his companions into a convenient doorway.
A wooden handcart adorned with a coat of arms rolled past, pulled by two shabby dwarves. Two more dwarves, rather more rotund than their fellows and much better dressed, walked along on either side of the cart. The well-dressed dwarves—both of whom were wearing massive golden chains around their necks—smoothed their glossy beards and talked in loud boisterous tones to each other.
The armed guards gave the four chimney sweeps suspicious looks and rattled their axes but passed by without accosting them.
“It’s nothing. Probably the tax collectors,” Selquist whispered hurriedly. “They’re not after us.”
The cart, heavily laden with bulging sacks, rolled by.
“I bet that’s full of gold and steel!” Pestle said wistfully.
Selquist gave the air an investigatory sniff, his nose twitched. “Gold, I think. Some steel mixed in, maybe a couple of bars of silver. They wanted nothing to do with us, that’s for sure. Still, this is just a sample of the wealth we’ll find. Where we’re going, there’ll be riches for us all. Stick with me, and someday you, too, Auger, will wear a gold chain around your neck.”
“Either that or a noose,” Pestle said gloomily to Mortar. The sight of the battle-axes had shaken his nerves.
The hill dwarves continued on, thankful that Selquist knew where he was going. (At least, they hoped Selquist knew where he was going.) Unable to see the sun, they had lost all sense of time and place, wandering around inside the mountain. Mortar guessed by the growling of his stomach that it was well after the dinner hour.
“Where’s the ale you promised?” he grumbled to Selquist. “And food?”
“Soon, soon,” Selquist said. “Keep moving. We have to be there by night.”
“It’s always night down here,” Auger said, but no one paid any attention.
The Seventh Road ended at a building. Here they ran across the wooden cart again. The contents were being unloaded into a larger cart, drawn by what appeared to be some sort of giant badger. The well-dressed dwarves stood slightly apart from the working dwarves, still chatting casually, though neither of them took their eyes from the tax money.
“Circle around it,” Selquist said.
The four scooted around the outside of a series of tunnels which Selquist said were called the West Warrens. They came upon the Second Road, which was, according to Selquist, one of two roads leading from the North Gate to the Theiwar city of Themadlin. As one might imagine, this road was not heavily traveled, except, perhaps, by rats.
The four entered a part of Thorbardin far different from the parts through which they had recently traveled. The passageway was poorly lit, littered with refuse, and foul smelling. Enormous cracks gaped at their feet. These cracks appeared to have been caused by quakes, but they had not been repaired, and might have been left to slow down any threatening force. Crude wooden bridges spanned the chasms, planks that could be taken up swiftly in a defensive situation.
Auger shook and shivered while crossing these planks, and it was several long hours after they first entered Thorbardin before they finally reached the outskirts of the Theiwar city.
The Theiwar dwelt on several levels, burrowing downward deep into the mountains’ roots. This area—the bottom floor for the Hylar—was the top floor of the Theiwar settlements.
The Theiwar had built no walls; there were no guard houses or barracks marking the entrance to their territory. But there were guards. Four dwarves, each with a battle-axe at the ready, stood blocking the road.
The dwarves were dressed in clothes that appeared to be cast-offs; the breeches and tunics were mismatched and tattered. Their hair was uncombed and matted, their beards were greasy and contained remnants of past meals. One of the dwarves was missing an eye. The eyelid covering the empty socket had been sewn shut. Yellow puss dribbled from beneath the wrinkled eyelid, ran down the dwarf’s chin, making tracks into his beard. The axes the Theiwar carried were top notch—well made, the blades sharp and gleaming in the light of many torches.
Auger, Pestle, and Mortar bunched together and wished they hadn’t come.
Selquist greeted the Theiwar with a nonchalant, “Good-evening, sirs,” and continued on.
“That’s far enough,” said the lead Theiwar—the one missing an eye. “What brings you swells to the city of Themadlin? Out slumming?”
“Relax, Theiwar cousin. We are not Hylar.” Selquist stepped forward.
He rubbed some of the dirt from his face, so that the Theiwar could get a good look at him. Even though they were travel worn and blackened with soot, he and his companions still presented a distinct contrast to the Theiwar, who both looked and smelled as if their last baths had been taken about the time of the Dwarfgate wars.
“We are Daewar, come to learn from Chronix. I am his apprentice. My name is Selquist.”
The four armed Theiwar discussed the matter in low tones. When their conversation ended, the one-eyed dwarf walked closer and thrust his face into Selquist’s.
“You’re Daewar, all right, or I’ve never smelled Daewar before. Which I have. I hate the smell of Daewar.” He fingered his axe.
“We’re not Daewar!” Auger protested, despite Selquist’s attempt to warn his friend off with an alarmed look and a jerk of the head. �
�We’re Neidar.”
“Oh, yeah?” The Theiwar clomped over, twisted his head to regard Auger with the one good eye. “Well, ain’t that too bad. ’Cause while I don’t like Daewar none, I got a healthy respect for ’em.” The glaring eye came closer and so did the axe blade. “I got no respect at all for Neidar pukes. I’d just as soon crack open a Neidar’s skull as look him in the face.”
Auger shrank back between his comrades, who were attempting to crawl into the rock wall behind them.
Selquist, with a sigh, strode forward. He slapped the Theiwar on the back.
“By Reorx, man, don’t you know a joke when you hear one? Auger’s such a comedian. Neidar! Ha, ha! That’s a good one! Why look at these dirty rascals. Do they look like Neidar to you?”
“They look more like gully dwarves than anything,” the Theiwar said.
“And what would Neidar be doing in Thorbardin? How would they get in? Unless you think the Hylar opened the Great Gate for us.” Selquist laughed loudly at the thought. His companions, with some prompting, laughed—a little sickly, but it was laughter.
“Or maybe we crawled through a crack in the mountain!” Selquist laughed harder.
His companions fell silent, glared at him.
The Theiwar scratched his head with the blade of his axe. “I guess maybe you’re right.”
Losing interest in the other three, much to their vast relief, the one-eyed Theiwar turned back to Selquist.
“You’ve been here before, ain’t you?”
Selquist nodded. “As I said, I am Chronix’s apprentice. He’s teaching me the fine art of acquistions. He will vouch for me and my party. Now, if you’ll just direct me to his dwelling—”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Daewar cousin.” The Theiwar gave the term a most uncousinly emphasis. “You’re gonna wait right here. Chronix can claim you if he wants. I ain’t gonna let four Daewar loose in Themadlin. Wait in there.”
He pointed to a mean-looking hovel that the four at first took for a refuse dump but which turned out to be the local tavern. Selquist and his friends shuffled inside, slipping in spilled ale and treading on broken crockery. The Theiwar guard sent a runner after Chronix and then clomped inside to keep his one good eye on the visitors.