The History of Krynn: Vol III

by Dragon Lance

  No longer of Thorin, they were no longer Calnar, but still they were of those once called “the highest,” because of Thorin’s lofty place high above the human realms. In the dwarven manner of speech, the term was “Hylar.” So, having no other name for themselves, they took the name Hylar and carried it with them. For them, Thorin was now Thoradin, and Thoradin was of the past. Somewhere beyond the hills and plains of the middle realms lay the future.

  Perched in the saddle of the great horse Piquin, with six other young adventurers at his back, Cale Greeneye scouted far afield as the tribe of Colin Stonetooth plodded onward toward a distant place none of them had ever seen – a place called Kal-Thax, which might be nothing more than legend or the dreams of old Mistral Thrax. Through the foothills leading down toward the Ergothian realm, the Hylar trekked, a thousand homeless households on the move. The steady beat of their marching drums was a promise and a warning to any who heard … a promise to the Hylar people that the prophecy of Everbardin would be fulfilled, and a warning to all others that these were a people who looked to the left sides of their tools.

  Many times the dwarves had halted the journey – to rest and gather food, to perform marriages and funerals, once for the birth of a baby to one of the younger women, and sometimes just because a hill demanded to be delved, a forest cleaned of underbrush, or a vein of ore to be mined and smelted.

  Now, as the procession entered even more new lands at a place where steep ravines crisscrossed a jumbled, broken countryside, they no longer resembled the serene, practical, and ensconced people they had been within Thorin. Their features were the same. They were still a short, sturdy dwarven people with dark hair and proud, thoughtful eyes, whose males’ trimmed beards were back-swept as though they faced into a wind and whose females were strong and usually beautiful. But now much of their attire was of the fabrics they had crafted along the way, and their armaments were more obviously warlike than they had favored in Thorin.

  Three times the Hylar had been attacked – twice by roving humans and once by ogres – and their lessons had been learned well. They were a weathered and travel-wise group now, and most creatures gave them wide berth in passing.

  At the rock-strewn top of a deep ravine that was as wide as a small valley, Cale Greeneye and his scouts drew rein, shading their eyes against the quartering sun of Krynn. The ravine walls were steep, though shelved with natural trails angling downward, and below were groves of trees lining a ribbon of bright water.

  Cale studied the landscape, gazing carefully up and down the canyon, then gestured. “Let’s take a look,” he said. “That may be a good place to pass the night.”

  He jerked around, then, as a voice only feet away said, “That’s exactly what you’ll have to do if you intend to cross that stream, but it won’t be easy.”

  Cale squinted, then frowned as a small figure stepped out of shadows between two slabs of upthrust stone. The creature was no taller than a dwarf – not as tall as most – but was distinctly not a dwarf. He was slim and fine-boned, with a face that might have belonged to a half-sized elf and a great cascade of brown hair tied up in the back with a leather thong.

  “A kender,” Cale Greeneye rasped, looking down from the height of Piquin’s saddle. “By Reorx! Are you people everywhere?”

  “Not me,” the kender shook his head, eyes widening in surprise. “I’m just right here, at least right now. Of course, before I came here, I was at …”

  “What did you mean, crossing the stream won’t be easy?”

  “Oh, that’s because of the knight,” the kender said, shrugging.

  “What knight?” Cale demanded, raising his voice in irritation.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Any night really.” The kender looked from one to another of them, gazing happily up at the frowning faces high above him. “You don’t live around here, do you?”

  “Of course not!” Cale snapped. “We’re just passing through.”

  “I didn’t think so,” the kender said. “You’re dwarves, and there aren’t any dwarves around here that I know of. But if you plan to pass the knight down there, like you said, then you’d better have a pretty good plan, because he won’t make it easy for you.”

  “Who won’t?”

  “The knight.”

  “What knight?”

  “The one down there at the bridge. And you don’t need to shout. I can hear you just fine. I have good ears. Do you know, I can hear insects breathe? Have you ever listened to a pond beetle breathing? It sounds just like an angry minotaur, except a lot smaller. Sand scorpions sound pretty neat, too, but you have to be really careful, or they’ll sting you on the ear. My cousin Chiswin had one ear twice the size of the other for three weeks because he was listening to …”

  “Gods’ rust!” Cale Greeneye hissed. “I only asked you a simple question! And you’re babbling on and on, and I haven’t learned anything yet. Don’t you ever shut up?”

  “Sure.” The kender nodded and raised a curious brow. “You talk a lot yourself, for a dwarf. Are you sure you aren’t from around here? I believe those are the biggest horses I ever saw. And all seven of them are the same color. The knight’s horse is pretty big, but not that big, and it’s a horse of a different color. Sort of light brown, like …”

  Cale took a deep breath. “What knight?” he roared.

  “I just told you. The one down there at the bridge.”

  “There … is … a … knight … at … the … bridge?” Cale spoke very slowly and distinctly, waving back his companions. Two of them had drawn their axes, out of sheer exasperation.

  “There sure is,” the kender assured him. “His name is Glendon.”

  “And what is this Glendon doing there, at the bridge?”

  “He’s waiting for people to try to cross the stream.”

  “Why?”

  “So he can stop them. It’s what he does, you know … or, rather, I guess you don’t know, not being from around here.” Abruptly, the kender scampered directly under Piquin’s belly and peered up from the other side. “Aha! I wondered how you dwarves get on and off these big horses. Now I see. You have a little roll-down rope ladder. That’s pretty clever.”

  Cale was fighting the reins, barely keeping his startled mount in control. Piquin’s ears were laid back, his eyes rolling, and his jaws fighting the bit. The other horses, sensing his panic, shied and back-stepped, and for a moment all the dwarves had their hands full.

  “Rust and corruption!” Cale yelled, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Don’t you know better than to run under a horse?” Furious, Cale brought Piquin under control, slipped off his spurs, loosed the hitch on his mounting ladder, and scurried down. He turned, the reins in one hand, the other balled into a fist. “I won’t stand for …” he stopped, looking this way and that. The kender was nowhere in sight. “Now where did that little tarnish go?”

  “Who?” a voice asked, from above.

  Cale swung around and looked up. The kender was sitting in his saddle, high atop Piquin. “You!” the dwarf roared. “Come down from there!”

  “Oh,” the kender said. He scampered down the ladder, agile as a spider on a web. “That’s all right, I was just curious. But I guess that was bad manners, considering that we haven’t been introduced or anything. My name is Springheel. Castomel Springheel. You can call me Cas if you want to. Who are you?”

  “Cale Greeneye,” Cale growled. “And you stay away from my horse!”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” the kender said brightly. “And these others?”

  With an impatient hiss, Cale gestured. “That’s Mica Rockreave, Gran Molden, and Coal Bellmetal. The three over there are Flint Cokeras, Pim Bouldersfield, and Shard Feldspar. Did you hear what I told you?”

  “Plain as day,” Cas nodded. “It may be a pleasure to meet all of you,” — his brows drew together thoughtfully — “but then, of course, it may not. It’s too early to be sure. What kind of dwarves are you?”

  “Hylar,” Cale announced p
roudly.

  “Really? Never heard of them. Are you going to try to pass the knight today?”

  “If he’s in our way,” Cale assured the little creature. “You say his name is Glendon? What’s the matter with him?”

  “You mean, aside from being a human?”

  “I mean, why does he want to stop people from crossing the stream? What’s on the other side?”

  “Nothing much. It’s about like this side, only it’s the other side instead.”

  Cale closed his eyes tightly and counted to seven. Then he asked, as politely as he could, “Why doesn’t he want us to cross his … his berusted bridge?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” the kender assured him. “It’s just that he made a vow. He said he is testing himself. I guess that’s something knights do.”

  Shaking his head, Cale Greeneye clambered back aboard Piquin and hauled up his mounting ladder. “Pim,” he said, turning, “you and Coal go back and report what we’ve heard. The rest of us will go down and see about that knight.”

  “Oh, good!” Cas Springheel grinned. “I’ll go tell Glendon that you’re coming. He’ll be delighted. There hasn’t been anybody for him to test himself on since those wandering ogres two days ago.” The kender turned and scampered away.

  “What ogres?” Cale called after him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing much,” the high voice drifted back up the slope. “They didn’t get across.”

  “Rust!” Cale muttered. “I should know better than to try to talk to a kender. Anybody should know better.” With a sigh of disgust, he reached toward his saddle horn, then stopped. “Where’s my other spur?”

  “Your what?” Mica Rockreave squinted at him.

  “My other spur! I had two of them just a minute ago. Now there’s only one.”

  *

  The kender was out of sight by the time the mounted dwarves reached the valley floor, where great, gnarled trees swallowed the path. With drawn blades and loosed shields, they rode into the shadows, their eyes darting around for any sign of danger. But for all its ominous appearance, the grove seemed peaceful enough. Birds of a dozen colors and a hundred voices livened the tops of the trees, and where afternoon sun slanted through breaks in the foliage canopy bright flowers grew.

  The path wound downward, the woods spreading and becoming more open. Around a bend Cale led them, then around another, and drew rein. Ahead the forest ended, and brushy slopes led downward to the bank of a rushing stream less than a hundred feet wide at this point. Lying across the stream was a great, gray tree trunk, weathered with age. Its top surface had been hewn level, making a smooth wooden path five feet wide with graded gravel approaches.

  But it wasn’t the hewn timber bridge that held the dwarves’ attention. It was the figure atop it. The man – he was apparently human, though not even the slightest part of his face or body was visible – wore an assemblage of oiled chain mail and polished armor that covered him from plumed helm to steel-shod toes, from gantleted hands to plated shins to shrouded breastplate. His cloak and plume were deep blue in color, and the stitchwork device at his breast, like the lacquered emblem on his oval shield, was a red falcon in stoop on a field of gray. Besides his shield, he carried a banded mace at his back, a black-hilted sword at his side, and a long, tapered lance tipped with an iron ball upright in its saddle-boot.

  The horse beneath him was almost as heavily – and elaborately – armored as he was, from spiked foreplate to skirts of mail.

  As the dwarves reached the bridge approach, the man raised his shield toward them. His voice sounded deep and hollow, resonating from the closed face-plate of his helm. “Turn away!” he ordered. “None may cross here, upon my oath and honor.”

  Cale’s glance picked out something else then. On the far bank, just to one side of the bridge, the kender sat grinning, cradling his knees as he watched with bright-eyed interest. The dwarf pointed. “If none may cross, then how about him?”

  The man didn’t turn. “That is a kender,” he said. “Kender don’t count.”

  “We do, too!” Cas Springheel objected from the far bank. “Some of us do, anyway!”

  The man ignored him, his visage fixed stonily on the four mounted dwarves facing him. “Turn away,” he repeated. “None may cross here, upon my oath and …”

  “You already said that,” Cale Greeneye snapped. “What is this oath you speak of?”

  “My oath,” the knight said. “My oath, upon my honor. I have sworn to hold this bridge.”

  “Why?”

  For a moment, the man was silent, as though considering a question too preposterous to deserve an answer. Then he said, “Why not? It’s as good a bridge as any.”

  “And if we decide to cross?”

  “I will oppose your crossing.”

  “And if we cross anyway?”

  “That is most unlikely.”

  “But if we do?”

  “Then upon my honor, I would owe you a debt of service.”

  “What does that mean?” Mica Rockreave demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter what it means,” the knight said, patiently, “for you shall not cross.”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Cale Greeneye muttered. He drew his axe, spurred Piquin with his one remaining spur, and crouched in his saddle as the tall horse thundered onto the bridge, straight at the motionless knight.

  Cale had no idea what happened next. All he saw was a glimpse of the oval shield rising, the lance tipping downward, and the armored horse turning daintily, quartering to lean toward him. One moment he and Piquin were bearing down on the armored man, and an instant later the two of them, dwarf and horse, tumbled with resounding splashes into the rushing water below the bridge. Cale’s own shield and his axe flew from his grip, and his chest felt as though a Thorin smith had rearranged his ribs with a hammer.

  Piquin thrashed about for a moment in the cold water, then got his bearings and headed back to shore, angling downstream on the current. For Cale, it was less simple. Massive and solid as any true dwarf, he went straight to the bottom and felt his boot soles crunch against gravel. He bent his knees and pushed upright as hard as he could, springing from the streambed. His head cleared water for only a second, but it was long enough to gulp in a deep breath before he sank again. Then, half walking and half swimming, he began his submerged journey back to shore.

  He was fifty yards downstream when Gran Molden grasped his hand and helped him from the water. Piquin was already there, soaking wet and watching curiously. Cale shook himself, spat water, and cleared his eyes, then turned to glare upstream. The bridge was still there, the armored horse still stood upon it, and the hooded knight still sat his horse, motionless as though nothing had happened. Flint Cokeras and Shard Feldspar sat in their saddles, gaping.

  “Rust and tarnish!” Cale snarled, then bent to cough up water. When the spasm passed, he grabbed Piquin’s reins and stormed upstream to the foot of the bridge. Striding to the very butt of the tree-bridge, he faced the stolid knight and demanded, “How did you do that?”

  “Properly,” the knight said. “It’s a matter of proper training.”

  “Well, we’re still coming across!” Cale raised his hand and sliced downward. “Shard! Flint! Put an end to this!”

  Instantly, two powerful dwarven horses thundered past him, their riders wielding shield and blade. Side by side, they filled the narrow bridge. Beyond them, Cale saw the knight dip his lance, saw the shield rise, and saw the armored horse turn slightly and brace itself, as though kneeling. The dwarves hit the obstacle with a crash, and their tall horses loomed above the human’s shorter animal. Then the lance swept around in an arc, the emblazoned shield thrust upward, and the warhorse reared high, directly between its opponents.

  Dwarves and golden horses seemed to fly in all directions, ending with resounding splashes on both sides of the bridge, and the knight resumed his position. “I did that properly, too,” his hollow-sounding voice called to Cale. “In all
modesty, I am really quite good at what I do.”

  It took a while to get Flint Cokeras and Shard Feldspar back on dry ground. When all were accounted for, the dwarves huddled together for a moment, then separated and began unpacking the gear from their saddles. On the bridge, the knight waited patiently. Beyond him, the kender danced up and down the riverbank, trying to see what was going on.

  Cale’s companions rummaged through packs and came up with delving tools, a pick and shovel, and a finely made light winch fitted with a length of good Thoradin twist cable.

  While Gran Molden stood guard with a loaded sling, the others went to work at the foot of the bridge. Within moments they had a sizeable hole dug alongside the log butt and were fitting their winch to the timber.

  “What are you doing over there?” the knight called, sounding puzzled.

  They ignored him. While Flint played out cable from the winch, Cale carried its end downstream and spliced a loop around the trunk of a sturdy tree. He returned, thrust prybars through the winch sockets, and three strong dwarves put their backs to the task of reeling in cable.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then the timber bridge shuddered, and the knight shouted, “You can’t do that!”

  By then, though, they had. The entire bridge tilted, slid into the freshly dug hole alongside, and knight and horse disappeared into the river. For long seconds there was no sign of them, then a horse head bobbed to the surface downstream, and an unarmored head with flowing red hair surfaced near it.

  Repacking their goods, Cale and his companions climbed aboard their horses and rode in stately procession across the slanting bridge to the far bank, where a delighted kender was clapping, dancing around, and calling encouragement to the man trying to follow his horse out of the water downstream.