Damn! Women! Irritably, Caramon flopped over on his stomach, determined to sweep all thoughts of females beneath the rug of his other problems. It worked. Weariness finally stole over him.
As he drifted into sleep, one thing remained to trouble him, hovering in the back of his mind. It was not logistics, or red-haired warrior women, or even lovely, white-robed clerics.
It was nothing more than a look—the strange look he had seen Raistlin give him when Caramon had said the name “Fistandantilus.”
It had not been a look of anger or irritation, as Caramon might have expected. The last thing Caramon saw before sleep erased the memory was Raistlin’s look of stark, abject terror.
BOOK 2
The Army Of Fistandantilus
As the band of men under Caramon’s command traveled south toward the great dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, their fame grew—and so did their numbers. The fabled “wealth beneath the mountain” had long been legend among the wretched, half-starved people of Solamnia. That summer, they had seen most of their crops wither and die in the fields. Dread diseases stalked the land, more feared and deadly than even the savage bands of goblins and ogres who had been driven from their ancient lands by hunger.
Though it was autumn still, the chill of coming winter was in the night air. Faced with nothing but the bleak prospect of watching their children perish through starvation or cold or the illnesses that the clerics of these new gods could not cure, the men and women of Solamnia believed they had nothing to lose. Abandoning their homes, they packed up their families and their meager possessions to join the army and travel south.
From having to worry about feeding thirty men, Caramon suddenly found himself responsible for several hundred, plus women and children as well. And more came to the camp daily. Some were knights, trained with sword and spear; their nobility apparent even through their rags. Others were farmers, who held the swords Caramon put in their hands as they might have held their hoes. But there was a kind of grim nobility about them, too. After years of helplessly facing Famine and Want, it was an exhilarating thought to be preparing to face an enemy that could be killed and conquered.
Without quite realizing how it happened, Caramon found himself general of what was now being called the “Army of Fistandantilus.”
At first, he had all he could manage to do in acquiring food for the vast numbers of men and their families. But memories of the lean days of mercenary life returned to him. Discovering those who were skilled hunters, he sent them ranging far afield in search of game. The women smoked the meat or dried it, so that what was not immediately used could be stored.
Many of those who came brought what grain and fruit they had managed to harvest. This Caramon pooled, ordering the grain pounded into flour or maize, baking it into the rock-hard but life-sustaining trail bread a traveling army could live on for months. Even the children had their tasks—snaring or shooting small game, fishing, hauling water, chopping wood.
Then he had to undertake the training of his raw recruits—drilling them in the use of spear and bow, of sword and shield.
Finally, he had to find those spears and bows, swords and shields.
And, as the army moved relentlessly south, word of their coming spread.…
CHAPTER
1
ax Tharkas—a monument to peace. Now it had become a symbol of war.
The history of the great stone fortress of Pax Tharkas has its roots in an unlikely legend—the story of a lost race of dwarves known as the Kal-thax.
As humans cherish steel—the forging of bright weapons, the glitter of bright coin; as elves cherish their woodlands—the bringing forth and nurturing of life; so the dwarves cherish stone—the shaping of the bones of the world.
Before the Age of Dreams was the Age of Twilight when the history of the world is shrouded in the mists of its dawning. There dwelt in the great halls of Thorbardin a race of dwarves whose stonework was so perfect and so remarkable that the god Reorx, Forger of the World, looked upon it and marveled. Knowing in his wisdom that once such perfection had been attained by mortals there was nothing left in life to strive for, Reorx took up the entire Kal-thax race and brought them to live with him near heaven’s forge.
Few examples remain of the ancient craftwork of the Kal-thax. These are kept within the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin and are valued above all other things. After the time of the Kal-thax, it was the lifelong ambition of each dwarf to gain such perfection in his stonework that he, too, might be taken up to live with Reorx.
As time went by, however, this worthy goal became perverted and twisted into an obsession. Thinking and dreaming of nothing but stone, the lives of the dwarves became as inflexible and unchanging as the medium of their craft. They burrowed deep into their ancient halls beneath the mountain, shunning the outside world. And the outside world shunned them.
Time passed and brought the tragic wars between elves and men. This ended with the signing of the Swordsheath Scroll and the voluntary exile of Kith-Kanan and his followers from the ancient elven homeland of Silvanesti. By the terms of the Swordsheath Scroll, the Qualinesti elves (meaning “freed nation”) were given the lands west of Thorbardin for the establishment of their new homeland.
This was agreeable to both humans and elves. Unfortunately, no one bothered to consult the dwarves. Seeing this influx of elves as a threat to their way of life beneath the mountain, the dwarves attacked. Kith-Kanan found, to his sorrow, that he had walked away from one war only to find himself embroiled in another.
After many long years, the wise elven king managed to convince the stubborn dwarves that the elves had no interest in their stone. They wanted only the living beauty of their wilderness. Though this love for something changeable and wild was totally incomprehensible to the dwarves, they at last came to accept the idea. The elves were no longer seen as a threat. The races could, at last, become friends.
To honor this agreement, Pax Tharkas was built. Guarding the mountain pass between Qualinesti and Thorbardin, the fortress was dedicated as a monument to differences—a symbol of unity and diversity.
In those times, before the Cataclysm, elves and dwarves had together manned the battlements of this mighty fortress. But now, dwarves alone kept watch from its two tall towers. For the evil time brought division once again to the races.
Retreating into their forested homeland of Qualinesti, nursing the wounds that drove them to seek solitude, the elves left Pax Tharkas. Safe inside their woodlands, they closed their borders to all. Trespassers—whether human or goblin, dwarf or ogre—were killed instantly and without question.
Duncan, King of Thorbardin, thought of this as he watched the sun drop down behind the mountains, falling from the sky into Qualinesti. He had a sudden, playful vision of the elves attacking the sun itself for daring to enter their land, and he snorted derisively. Well, they have good reason to be paranoid, he said to himself. They have good reason to shut out the world. What did the world do for them?
Entered their lands, raped their women, murdered their children, burned their homes, stole their food. And was it goblins or ogres, spawn of evil? No! Duncan growled savagely into his beard. It was those they had trusted, those they had welcomed as friends—humans.
And now it’s our turn, Duncan thought, pacing the battlements, an eye on the sunset that had bathed the sky in blood. It’s our turn to shut our doors and tell the world good riddance! Go to the Abyss in your own way and let us go to it in ours!
Lost in his thoughts, Duncan only gradually became aware that another person had joined him in his pacing; iron-shod steps keeping time with his. The new dwarf was head and shoulders taller than his king and, with his long legs, could have taken two steps for his king’s one. But he had, out of respect, slowed his pace to match his monarch’s.
Duncan frowned uncomfortably. At any other time, he would have welcomed this person’s company. Now it came to him as a sign of ill omen. It threw a shadow over his thoughts, as the sinking s
un caused the chill shadow of the mountain peaks to lengthen and stretch out their fingers toward Pax Tharkas.
“They’ll guard our western border well,” Duncan said by way of opening the conversation, his gaze on the borders of Qualinesti.
“Aye, Thane,” the other dwarf answered, and Duncan cast a sharp glance at him from beneath his thick, gray eyebrows. Though the taller dwarf had spoken in agreement with his king, there was a reserve, a coolness in the dwarf’s voice indicative of his disapproval.
Snorting in irritation, Duncan whirled abruptly in his pacing, heading the other direction, and had the amused satisfaction of having caught his fellow dwarf off guard. But the taller dwarf, instead of stumbling to turn around and catch up with his king, simply stopped and stood staring sadly out over the battlements of Pax Tharkas into the now shadowy elven lands beyond.
Irritably, Duncan first considered simply continuing on without his companion, then he came to a halt, giving the tall dwarf time to catch up. The tall dwarf made no move, however, so finally with an exasperated expression, Duncan turned and stomped back.
“By Reorx’s beard, Kharas,” he growled, “what is it?”
“I think you should meet with Fireforge,” Kharas said slowly, his eyes on the sky that was now deepening to purple. Far above, a single, bright star sparkled in the darkness.
“I have nothing to say to him,” Duncan said shortly.
“The Thane is wise,” Kharas spoke the ritual words with a bow, but he accompanied it with a heavy sigh, clasping his hands behind his back.
Duncan exploded. “What you mean to say is ‘The Thane’s a stupid ass!’ ” The king poked Kharas in the arm. “Isn’t that nearer the mark?”
Kharas turned his head, smiling, stroking the silken tresses of his long, curling beard that shone in the light of the torches being lit upon the walls. He started to reply, but the air was suddenly filled with noise—the ringing of boots, the stamping of feet and calling of voices, the clash of axes against steel: the changing of the watch. Captains shouted commands, men left their positions, others took them over. Kharas, observing this in silence, used it as a meaningful backing for his statement when he finally did speak.
“I think you should listen to what he has to say to you, Thane Duncan,” Kharas said simply. “There is talk that you are goading our cousins into war—”
“Me!” Duncan roared in a rage. “Me goading them into war! They’re the ones who’re on the march, swarming down out of their hills like rats! It was they who left the mountain. We never asked them to abandon their ancestral home! But no, in their stiff-necked pride they—” He sputtered on, relating a long history of wrongs, both justified and imagined. Kharas allowed him to talk, waiting patiently until Duncan had blown off most of his anger.
Then the tall dwarf said patiently, “It will cost you nothing to listen, Thane, and might buy us great gains in the long run. Other eyes than those of our cousins are watching, you may be certain.”
Duncan growled, but he kept silent, thinking. Contrary to what he had accused Kharas of thinking, King Duncan was not a stupid dwarf. Nor did Kharas consider him such: Quite the contrary. One of seven thanes ruling the seven clans of the dwarven kingdom, Duncan had managed to ally the other thanedoms under his leadership, giving the dwarves of Thorbardin a king for the first time in centuries. Even the Dewar acknowledged Duncan their leader, albeit reluctantly.
The Dewar, or so-called dark dwarves, dwelt far beneath the ground, in dimly lit, foul-smelling caves that even the mountain dwarves of Thorbardin, who lived most of their lives below ground, hesitated to enter. Long ago, a trace of insanity had shown up in this particular clan, causing them to be shunned by the others. Now, after centuries of inbreeding forced upon them by isolation, the insanity was more pronounced, while those judged sane were an embittered, dour lot.
But they had their uses as well. Quick to anger, ferocious killers who took pleasure in killing, they were a valued part of the Thane’s army. Duncan treated them well for that reason and because, at heart, he was a kind and just dwarf. But he was smart enough not to turn his back on them.
Likewise, Duncan was smart enough to consider the wisdom of Kharas’s words. “Other eyes will be watching.” That was true enough. He cast a glance back to the west, this time a wary one. The elves wanted no trouble, of that he felt certain. Nevertheless, if they thought the dwarves likely to provoke war, they would act swiftly to protect their homeland. Turning, he looked to the north. Rumor had it that the warlike Plainsmen of Abanasinia were considering an alliance with the hill dwarves, whom they had allowed to camp upon their lands. In fact, for all Duncan knew, this alliance could have already been made. At least if he talked to this hill dwarf, Fireforge, he might find out.
Then, too, there were darker rumors still … rumors of an army marching from the shattered lands of Solamnia, an army led by a powerful, black-robed wizard.…
“Very well!” King Duncan snarled with no good grace. “You have won again, Kharas. Tell the hill dwarf I will meet him in the Hall of Thanes at the next watch. See if you can dredge up representatives from the other thanes. We’ll do this above board, since that’s what you recommend.”
Smiling, Kharas bowed, his long beard nearly sweeping the tops of his boots. With a surly nod, Duncan turned and stomped below, his boots ringing out the measure of his displeasure. The other dwarves along the battlements bowed as their king passed but almost immediately turned back to their watch. Dwarves are an independent lot, loyal to their clans first and anyone else second. Though all respected Duncan, he was not revered and he knew it. Maintaining his position was a daily struggle.
Conversation, briefly interrupted by the passage of the king, renewed almost immediately. These dwarves knew war was coming, were eager for it, in fact. Hearing their deep voices, listening to their talk of battles and fighting, Kharas gave another sigh.
Turning in the opposite direction, he started off in search of the delegation of hill dwarves, his heart nearly as heavy as the gigantic war hammer he carried—a hammer few other dwarves could even lift. Kharas, too, saw war coming. He felt as he had felt once when, as a young child, he had traveled to the city of Tarsis and stood on the beach, watching in wonder as the waves crashed upon the shore. That war was coming seemed as inevitable and unstoppable as the waves themselves. But he was determined to do what he could to try to prevent it.
Kharas made no secret of his hatred of war, he was strong in his arguments for peace. Many among the dwarves found this odd, for Kharas was the acknowledged hero of his race. As a young dwarf in the days before the Cataclysm, he had been among those who fought the legions of goblins and ogres in the Great Goblin Wars fomented by the Kingpriest of Istar.
That was a time when there was still trust among races. Allies of the Knights, the dwarves had gone to their aid when the goblins invaded Solamnia. The dwarves and knights fought side by side, and young Kharas had been deeply impressed by the knightly Code and the Measure. The Knights, in turn, had been impressed by the young dwarf’s fighting skill.
Taller and stronger than any others of his race, Kharas wielded a huge hammer that he had made himself—legend said it was with the god, Reorx’s, help—and there were countless times he held the field alone until his men could rally behind him to drive off the invaders.
For his valor, the Knights awarded him the name “Kharas,” which means “knight” in their language. There was no higher honor they could bestow upon an outsider.
When Kharas returned home, he found his fame had spread.
He could have been the military leader of the dwarves; indeed, he might have been king himself, but he had no such ambitions. He had been one of Duncan’s strongest supporters, and many believed Duncan owed his rise to power in his clan to Kharas. But, if so, that fact had not poisoned their relationship. The older dwarf and the younger hero became close friends—Duncan’s rock-hard practicality keeping Kharas’s idealism well-grounded.
And then came
the Cataclysm. In those first, terrible years following the shattering of the land, Kharas’s courage shone as an example to his beleaguered people. His had been the speech that led the thanes to join together and name Duncan king. The Dewar trusted Kharas, when they trusted no other. Because of this unification, the dwarves had survived and even managed to thrive.
Now, Kharas was in his prime. He had been married once, but his beloved wife perished during the Cataclysm, and dwarves, when they wed, wed for life. There would be no sons bearing his name, for which Kharas, contemplating the bleak future he foresaw ahead for the world, was almost thankful.
“Reghar Fireforge, of the hill dwarves, and party.”
The herald pronounced the name, stamping the butt end of his ceremonial spear upon the hard, granite floor. The hill dwarves entered, walking proudly up to the throne where Duncan sat in what was now called the Hall of Thanes in the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Behind him, in shorter chairs that had been hastily dragged in for the occasion, sat the six representatives of the other clans to act as witnesses for their thanes. They were witnesses only, there to report back to their thanes what had been said and done. Since it was war time, all authority rested with Duncan. (At least as much of it as he could claim.)
The witnesses were, in fact, nothing more than captains of their respective divisions. Though supposedly a single unit made up collectively of all the dwarves from each clan, the army was, nonetheless, merely a collection of clans gathered together. Each clan provided its own units with its own leaders; each clan lived separate and apart from the others. Fights among the clans were not uncommon—there were blood feuds that went back for generations. Duncan had tried his best to keep a tight lid on these boiling cauldrons, but—every now and then—the pressure built too high and the lid blew off.
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