Colin Stonetooth gazed up at the man icily. “Kneel before me, human,” the dwarf said. “I’m getting a cramp in my neck.”
With a shrug, Glendon complied. He would not bow, but he would kneel.
Colin Stonetooth held out his hand. “Give me your sword,” he demanded.
Glendon hesitated and heard the whisper of half-drawn blades all around him. Slowly he drew his sword, reversed it, and handed it over. The Hylar chieftain took it and set it aside, then reached around, picked up a wrapped blade, and held it before him, peeling the fabric away.
Glendon blinked, and his eyes went wide. In size and shape the sword was almost identical to his own. In length and taper, in shape of pommel and curve of guard, it was an exact twin. But there the similarity ended. This sword was exquisite, a work of the finest craft he had ever seen. Its blade glistened in the light, its razor edges as finely honed as a cleric’s shaving blade. Its hilt was of polished blackwood, inlaid with fine, elaborate patterns of silver and gold. And in the crest of its nickel-steel pommel was a perfect blue-white diamond the size of a cloak button.
Colin Stonetooth held the sword out to him, hilt-forward. “We have learned from you, Sir Glendon Hawke,” the dwarf said. “I think we have only begun to realize how much we have learned. Your pledge is kept, and with this token I complete mine. You are free of service, Sir Knight. And this sword is yours. It is the finest of our craft. It will never fail you. Take it and go, with the thanks of the Hylar.”
21
Elven Encounter
The mountains rose ahead and on both sides as Cale Greeneye and his adventurers scouted the trail, just within sound of the marching drums. Here the rising plains formed a natural pathway, funneling between high ridges toward the thrusting peaks westward. Ahead and beyond, range after range of mountains rose into the distance, each more distant silhouette bluer than the one before and rising higher into the sky.
The western plains seemed jammed with people—humans, mostly—but their encampments were scattered and aloof from one another and well out from the rising mountains. Cale and his scouts had encountered no trouble in slipping through, and now the foothills rose around them and the mountains ahead.
It was a majestic vista, crowned by the farthest and highest of the ranges ahead. There were the highlands and the peaks rising above them. On the right, blue with distance like a snow-crowned monarch, the tallest peak seemed to pierce the very sky, to shear it away as though there were no sky beyond.
To its left and straight ahead as the valley pointed was a massive mountain that seemed to dominate the view. Not as tall as the sky-ender north of it, it was far wider and was topped by three giant crags like great fangs or spearheads. Mists rolled and swirled around these spires, as grain rises in a broth when stirred by a spoon. Drifts of cloud danced there like threads weaving themselves in tapestries.
Farther south, bending away beyond the flank of that cloud-stirring mountain, was yet another giant rise, a rugged, saw-toothed eminence capped by double peaks.
“Those three crags up there”—Mica Rockreave pointed ahead—“stand like beacons, inviting us onward.”
“Too inviting for my taste.” Gran Molden frowned. “If I were going to lay a trap for travelers, that’s where I would put it, because that’s where they would go.”
“Are you thinking of laying a trap, Gran?” Cale Greeneye teased.
“I’m thinking of avoiding the traps of others,” Gran snapped. “See how this valley narrows ahead, climbing toward that widest crest? And how the cloud-comb crags beckon? Anyone coming this way would be tempted to take that path.”
“Let’s not forget what the knight told us,” Coal Bellmetal put in. “Kal-Thax is a sealed land. No outsiders are allowed in, and those who try to enter rarely return. The people of Kal-Thax don’t want visitors.”
“He also said the people there are dwarves, like us.”
“He said they are dwarves. He didn’t say they are like us.”
“Well, dwarves or not,”—Flint Cokeras tapped a hard fist against his armor-plated chest—“no one is going to stop the Hylar without a fight.”
Cale Greeneye shook his head, tightening rein to ease Piquin’s long stride. “You’re always spoiling for a fight, Flint. But why fight, if you don’t have to? Look over there, on the flank of that ridge.”
They looked to the right, shading their eyes. “What do you see?” Flint asked.
“Look closely,” Cale said, pointing. “There. On the slope. There is fresh stone there. Bits of stone have been moved, and the pattern is upward, like a trail. Someone else has distrusted this valley. They’ve made another trail, going the same way, but with better cover.”
“Wise, I’d say,” Shard Feldspar squinted, beginning to see what Cale saw. “But who would lay a trail so dim? No dwarf did that. And no human would ever be able to follow it. Maybe we’d better take a look.”
Cale turned, listening. The faint, distant drums told him that the main march was still miles away. “All right. We have time.” Nudging Piquin, he led to the right, the others following.
The upward trail was dim indeed. But for Cale’s knack for seeing what was out of place, they would not have been able to follow it. Upward it led, along the flank of a rising ridge, concealed from view except for those upon it. The only signs that anyone had ever gone this way were so subtle that only a sharp-eyed dwarf might have seen them—a bit of stone turned slightly from alignment with its imprint, a smudge on a ledge where something had scraped against the rock, a bit of gravel sunk more deeply in sand than its own weight would account for.
At a bend, Cale climbed down from Piquin’s saddle and squatted to taste the stone of an outcrop. “Well, someone has been along here,” he said. “But I can’t tell who.”
He was just reaching for his mounting ladder when Gran Molden’s tense voice said, “Don’t move, Cale. We have a problem.”
He turned slowly and froze. A dozen or more lithe figures stood on the trail, above and below them. Without sound, they had appeared there, only yards away, and the dwarves found themselves looking down the shafts of deadly arrows in drawn bows.
Cale gaped at the somber archers. For an instant, he had thought they were humans. But now he knew better. “Elves,” he muttered. Slowly and carefully he stepped away from Piquin, raising his hands away from his weapons. The other dwarves, in their saddles, did the same.
From uphill, more and more elves appeared, emerging soundlessly from the brush and stones of the mountainside. The dwarves stared around at them, intensely aware of the steady arrows trained on them from all sides. They had seen elves before. In past times, a few elves had come to Balladine to trade—aloof, stately people in the flowing robes and spider-silk-fine garments of the Silvanesti, and now and then a silent, furtive Kagonesti from the deep forests south of the ledgelands.
But these were different, somehow. Their garments were mostly soft leathers and rough weaves, blending with the colors of the land. Their features were neither the cold, aloof faces of Silvanesti nor the weirdly painted, intense faces of Kagonesti. These were elves, but another kind of elves.
“Hold your arrows,” Cale said cautiously. “We mean no threat to you.”
“Nor will you ever, dwarf,” the nearest one said icily. The drawn bow aligned itself on Cale’s throat, and he could almost feel the broad, razor-edged arrowhead piercing his flesh.
Then another voice came, softly but with authority. “Hold, Demoth! These people are not of Kal-Thax.”
Cale turned. Among the elves now above them on the rise—hundreds of them, it seemed—one had stepped forward. Lithe and graceful as a perfect sapling in fall, she paused with one slender, soft-booted foot on a rock and gestured. “Look at their horses,” she said. “Have you ever seen horses like these beyond the Khalkists? These dwarves are Calnar.”
The one called Demoth relaxed his bowstring slightly. “Then what are they doing here?”
“Maybe we should ask,”
the female suggested. She looked from one to another of the dwarves with wide-set, slanting eyes. “What are you doing so far from home, high-dwellers?”
Cale found his voice and lowered his arms a bit. “We have no home. We were Calnar once, but no longer. Now we are Hylar, and seeking new delves.”
She looked beyond him, into the distance. “Those drums are yours, then?”
“They are ours. Mistral Thrax has had a vision of Everbardin, and the people of Colin Stonetooth have followed it.” He glanced at Demoth’s bow, took a deep breath and lowered his arms, taking a demanding stance. “And why are elves in this place? And in the name of Reorx, why do you point arrows at us?”
The female elf gestured. “Lower your points,” she said. All around, reluctantly, bows were lowered and draws relaxed. She looked at Cale again. “My name is Eloeth,” she said. “There is more to it than that, but Eloeth is enough. And you?”
“Cale Greeneye,” he said. “Son of Colin Stonetooth, once chieftain of the Calnar, now leader of the Hylar.”
“The Calnar of Thorin,” she said. “I have heard the drums of Balladine.”
“Thoradin,” he corrected. “Thorin is Thorin only for those who remained. We search for Everbardin.”
“Well, have a care searching these mountains,” she suggested. “Look down there.”
Cale turned. He could see nothing where she pointed.
“Come up here where I am,” she said. “Then look.”
Cale clambered up the rise to stand beside the elf girl. She was taller than him by several inches, though she looked to weigh only a fraction of his solid bulk. She pointed again, and Cale turned. From here he could see the valley beyond the trail—the same valley he and the others had turned from, but higher, deeper into the mountains.
The valley floor was littered with death. He shaded his eyes, squinting. The largest of the silent forms looked like horses. Or most of them did. A few looked like dead ogres. And scattered everywhere were other, smaller things. He stared.
“Only the latest of many battles,” the elf told him. “Kal-Thax is under siege and is not a safe place to travel.”
“You’re here,” Cale pointed out.
“We have our own ways,” Eloeth said. “There is dragon war in Silvanesti. Our cousins need us there, and all we can bring with us. To go east we must cross Kal-Thax. So we do.”
He looked around, trying to estimate their number, but it was impossible. The elves had a way of moving a bit and becoming very hard to see, camouflaged against the terrain. But there were a lot of them.
“We are one of many parties,” Eloeth said. “And we are looking for allies.” She looked again at the other dwarves, noticing their armor and their weapons. “I don’t suppose any of you would be interested in fighting dragons?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Not that we couldn’t, if we wanted to, but only humans and kender turn to new ventures before the old ones are complete.” He paused, looking eastward, then added, “There are a lot of humans between here and where you’re going. They might be better mannered if they had something constructive to do. Maybe some of them would join you to fight dragons.”
“Humans?” she raised an exquisite eyebrow.
“I know,” Cale shrugged. “But they aren’t all bad. I know a knight who might help. His name is Glendon Hawke. He’s a great fighter, and he is back there somewhere, in the direction you’re going.”
“Would he join us?”
“I haven’t any idea,” Cale told her. “But you could talk to him. If he won’t help, maybe he knows somebody who will.”
“Thank you,” the elf girl said. “In return for that, I give you a suggestion. If you want to get into Kal-Thax without going through a war zone, turn north. That mountain over there—the highest one—is called Sky’s End. Go around to the north of it. There’s a dwarven place there that has been abandoned. And the rises below it are deserted right now. Since the early snows, the broken lands are virtually impassable … for humans, at least. You could begin your search there for … what is it you call what you seek?”
“Everbardin,” he said. “It means hope. And home.”
“Everbardin,” she repeated. “To us, Qualinesti means hope—or new hope. Silvanesti means home.” She backed away. “Go in peace, Cale Greeneye. You and we are not at war … though everybody else around here seems to be.”
Cale clambered down to the trail again and climbed aboard Piquin, then looked around in surprise. Where there had been dozens, or maybe hundreds, of elves, now he saw only a few—then none. The lithe, silent beings had gone their way, fading into the landscape. His companions also were staring around in confusion.
“Well,” Cale decided, “you heard what she said. Let’s veer north and take a look at that next peak.”
“You trust that elf?” Gran Molden stared at him.
“Why not?” Cale glared back. “I gave her some advice, and she responded. That’s one thing about elves. They are straight traders.” From a high place where they could see the Hylar procession, Cale signaled, using his burnished shield as a mirror. Across the miles, the response came, and they saw Colin Stonetooth’s tribe change course to follow them. Then they headed for the slopes of Sky’s End.
When the dwarven scouts were gone, shadows moved on the hillside, and what had seemed a vacant slope became a large band of western elves trotting down a hidden trail. At the lead, the elf called Demoth asked, “Why would you counsel dwarves, Eloeth? They are nothing to us. Especially here, in Kal-Thax.”
She smiled slightly. “Why not? Those were unusual dwarves, Demoth. They found our trail, when no one else ever has. Besides, I have a hunch about that one … that Cale Greeneye.”
“What hunch?”
“I don’t know. I have a feeling we’ll see him again. Come on. Let’s have a look at these ‘Hylar’ with their marching drums, then see if we can find a knight named Glendon.”
In the shadow of a great peak, through broken, tumbled lands bounded by a deep, vertical gorge, the people called Hylar entered the realm of Kal-Thax. Old Mistral Thrax extended his red-palmed hands upward. “There,” he told Colin Stonetooth. “Up there, above the stonefall.”
“Those bead-eyes from the mage?” someone asked. “Do they guide you, Mistral?”
“My hands guide me.” The old dwarf shrugged. “I haven’t seen those bead-eyes since the day that kender left. But this is the place where our search begins.”
Here the entire lower face of the mountain was a massive fan of stone rubble, miles wide at the bottom. Dwarves climbed through it, poking and tasting. “Hewn stone,” they reported. “From fresh delving, very deep.”
Above, high on the mountainside, they found the remains of an elaborate citadel, partly destroyed by rockfall. Within and behind it the Hylar studied walls, passageways, cubicles, and ledges, learning what they could of those who had created this place. They were dwarves, obviously, and the cuttings of the stone spoke of a numerous, energetic people whose tools, primitive by Hylar standards, were nonetheless of fine quality.
And the place was only recently abandoned. So where had they gone?
Wight Anvil’s-Cap, a master delver, studied the rubble below the delvings. Frost Steelbit, who had been chief of wardens in Thorin, studied the patterns of the wrecked citadel. Talam Bendiron, who once had been tap warden, puzzled over the placement of seeps and cisterns. Then they conferred with Colin Stonetooth.
“This place was called Daebardin, and its people the Daewar,” Frost said. “But the runes have been scratched over, indicating that they packed up and left.”
“These Daewar are primitive in some ways,” Talam said. “They do not have the knowledge of water-tunneling, so they have to live near a natural source. But our tampers have sounded out this peak and its only water is outside, on its face.”
“Yet they went inward,” Wight reported. “This delving-stone is from a tunnel that goes south into the mountain. The rubble indicates a straight dig
, directly into the stone heart of the peak, with no consistent layers … as there would be if they had widened their digs or delved a living space.”
“They are people of the sun,” Frost Steelbit puzzled. “The architecture of their citadel shows that. They do not like the dark deeps, and they don’t know how to build sun-tunnels, yet they penetrated a peak with no natural quartz for light. Why would they do that?”
“There has been fighting here,” Jerem Longslate noted. “It looks like war between tribes. Some of those who battered the citadel were dark-seekers. Others were of a cliff-dwelling type.”
“But not those who lived here,” Frost persisted. “These are puzzling people. Not as primitive as those around them seem, though as Talam said, there are many things they haven’t discovered. Still, the people who built this place are fairly civilized, it seems.”
“Possibly these are the ones that knight mentioned,” Colin suggested. “The ones he called the bright-colored dwarves. He said they are better organized than most in Kal-Thax.”
“Obviously,” Frost agreed. “They are fine delvers, which means they have fine organization. But they are sun people. Why would they dig into darkness?”
“Possibly to reach a place where they knew there would be light,” Colin mused. “We know where their tunnel begins. I think we should find where it ends.”
“It will take a while to break through the seal they set in their tunnel,” Wight Anvil’s-Cap said. “It is only stone, but cleverly done—a hinged plug, of all things! Balam Platen wants to study how it was made. He believes that such a gate, using the proper metals to shield the stone, would be impregnable.”
“Let him study to his content.” The chieftain nodded in agreement. “There will be time to explore the tunnel. Right now, there are other things to do. We must establish residence in this land, of course. After that, I think we should take a look at these mountains and maybe meet some of our new neighbors.”
The Covenant of the Forge Page 20