He had lost a bucket of blood or more, and every time his foot slipped on a loose rock, the resulting lurch opened his newest wound anew, moistening his side with fresh blood. Still Tred didn’t complain, nor did he slow Nikwillig’s brisk pace. Their turn and attack had daunted the pursuit, it seemed, for few howls came rolling out to them on the night winds, and none of those were very close.
When Tred and Nikwillig crested a high ridge and looked far down upon a distant village—just a cluster of houses, really—they looked to each other with concern.
“We go in there and we might bring a horde o’ orcs and wolfies on ’em,” Tred reasoned.
“And if we don’t go in, ye’re gonna slow, and slow some more,” Nikwillig replied. “We’ll not be making Mithral Hall anytime soon, if we can even find our way to the place.”
“Ye think they’re knowin’ how to fight?” Tred asked, looking back to the village.
“They’re living in the wild mountains, ain’t they?”
Simple enough, and true enough, and so Tred just gave a shrug and followed Nikwillig along the descending trail.
A wall of piled stones as tall as a man surrounded the cluster of houses, but it wasn’t until the pair got very close that they noted any sentries. Even the two humans—a man and a woman—who finally peeked over the wall to call out to them didn’t seem as if they were formal sentries. It was as if they simply happened to be walking by and noticed the dwarves.
“What are you two about?” came the woman’s call.
“We’d be about to fall, I’d be guessin’,” Nikwillig answered. He propped Tred up a bit to accentuate his point. “Ye got a warm bed and a bit o’ hot stew for me injured kinfolk here?”
As if all of his energy had been given in the march, and his stubborn mind finally allowed his body the chance to rest, Tred fell limp and collapsed to the ground. Nikwillig guided him down as softly as possible.
There was no gate on that side of the village, but the woman and man came right out, scrambling over the wall and rushing to the dwarves. They, particularly the woman, went to work inspecting the injured dwarf, but they also both looked past the two dwarves, as if they expected an army of enemies to be chasing the battered duo in.
“You from Mithral Hall?” the man asked.
“Felbarr,” Nikwillig answered. “We was headin’ for Shallows when we got hit.”
“Shallows?” the woman echoed. “Long way.”
“Long chase.”
“What hit you? Orcs?” asked the man.
“Orcs an’ giants.”
“Giants? Haven’t seen any hill giants about in a long time.”
“Not hill giants. Blue-skinned dogs. Lookin’ pretty and hittin’ ugly. Frost giants.”
Both the man and woman looked up at him in concern, their eyes going wide. The folk of this region were not unfamiliar with trouble concerning frost giants. The old Grayhand, Jarl Orel, hadn’t always kept his mighty people deep within the mountains over the decades, though thankfully, the frost giant forays hadn’t been numerous. Still, any fight in any part of the area that included frost giants, perhaps the most formidable enemy in all the region next to the very occasional dragon, became news, dire news, the stuff of fireside tales and nightmares.
“Let’s get him inside,” the woman offered. “He’s needing a bed and a hot meal. I can’t believe he’s even alive!”
“Bah, Tred’s too ugly to die,” Nikwillig remarked.
Tred opened a weary eye and slowly lifted his hand toward his friend’s face, as if to pat him thankfully.
But as he got close, he pressed his index finger under his thumb, and flicked Nikwillig under the nose. Nikwillig fell back, grabbing his nose, and Tred settled back down, closing his eyes, a slight smile spreading on his crusty, pale face.
The folk of the small village, Clicking Heels, multiplied their guarding duties many times over, with a third of the two hundred sturdy folk working at a time as sentries and scouts in eight hour shifts. After two days recuperating, Nikwillig joined in those duties, bolstering the line, and even helping to direct the construction of some additional fortification.
Tred, though, was in no position to take part in anything. The dwarf slept through the night and through the day. Even after a couple of days, he woke only long enough to devour a huge meal the good folk of Clicking Heels were kind enough to supply. There was one cleric in the town, as well, but he wasn’t very skilled at the magical part of his vocation and his healing skills, though he piled them on Tred, did little more good than the rest.
By the fifth day, Tred was up and about and starting to look and sound like his surly old self once more. By the end of a tenday, and still with no pursuit—giant, orc or worg—in sight, Tred was anxious to get moving.
“We’re off to Mithral Hall,” Nikwillig announced one morning, and the folk of Clicking Heels, humans all, seemed genuinely sorry to see the dwarves off. “We’ll get King Gandalug to send some warriors up to check in on ye.”
“King Bruenor, you mean,” one of the villagers replied. “If he’s returned to his folk from far off Icewind Dale.”
“That right?”
“So we’ve heard.”
Nikwillig nodded, offering a sigh for the loss of Gandalug before returning to his typically determined expression.
“King Bruenor then, as fair a dwarf as e’er there’s been.”
“I’m not sure he’ll comply and send his soldiers, nor am I convinced that we need them,” the man went on.
“Well, we’ll tell him what’s about and let him make up his own mind, then,” Tred interjected. “That’s why he’s the king, after all.”
That same morning, Tred and Nikwillig walked out of Clicking Heels, their steps strong once more, their packs full of supplies—good and tasty food and drink, not the slop they had stolen from the orcs. The folk had given them detailed directions to Mithral Hall as well, and so the dwarves were hopeful that they would find the end of this part of their journey soon enough. They intended to go to Mithral Hall, warn King Bruenor, or whomever it was leading their bearded kin, then get an escort from there through the connecting tunnels of the upper Under-dark, back to their homes in Citadel Felbarr.
Even that wouldn’t be the end of the road for Tred at least, for the tough dwarf had every intention of raising a band of warriors to head back out and avenge his brother and the others.
First things first, though, and that meant finding their way to Mithral Hall. Despite the directions, the dwarves found that no easy task in the winding and confusing mountain trails. A wrong turn along the narrow channels running through the stone often meant a long and difficult backtrack.
“It’s the wrong damn stream,” Tred grumbled one morning, the pair moving along steadily, but going south and east, whereas Mithral Hall was southwest of Clicking Heels.
“It’ll wind back,” Nikwillig assured him.
“Bah!” Tred snorted, shaking a fist at his companion.
They were lost and he knew it, and so did Nikwillig, whether he’d admit it or not. They didn’t turn back, though. The road along the river had led them down a pair of very difficult descents that promised to be even more difficult climbs. To turn around after having gone so far seemed foolish.
They continued on, and when the stream took another unexpected dive over a waterfall, Tred grunted, grumbled, and climbed down the rocks to the side.
“Might be that it’s time to think about going th’ other way,” Nikwillig offered.
“Bah!” was all that stubborn Tred would reply, and that grunt was exaggerated, for Tred hit an especially slick stone as he had waved his hand in a dismissive manner at Nikwillig.
He got down to the bottom faster at least.
They went on in silence after that and were looking about for a place to set camp when they crested one outcropping of huge cracked boulders to see the land fall away, wide and low before them, a huge valley running east and west.
“Big pass,” Nikwill
ig remarked.
“One caravans might be using to get to Mithral Hall,” Tred reasoned. “West it is!”
Nikwillig nodded, standing beside his companion, glad, as was Tred, to see that the going might be much easier the next day.
Of course, neither knew that they were standing on the northern rim of Fell Pass, the site of a great battle of old, where the very real and very dangerous ghosts of the vanquished lingered in great numbers.
The dwarf councilor, Agrathan Hardhammer, shifted uneasily in his seat as the volume around him increased along with the agitation of the others, all human, in the room.
“Perhaps you should have granted him an audience,” said Shoudra Stargleam, the sceptrana of the city.
Shoudra’s bright blue eyes flashed as she spoke, and she shook her head, as she always seemed to be doing, letting her long dark hair fly wide to either side. Her hair was often the subject of gossip among the women of the city, for though Shoudra was in her thirties and had lived for all her life in the harsh, windblown climate of Mirabar, it held the luster and shine that one might expect on the head of a girl half Shoudra’s age. In all respects, the sceptrana was a beautiful creature, tall and lithe, yet with deceptively delicate features. Deceptive, because though she was ultimately feminine, Shoudra Stargleam was possessed of a solidity, a formidability, that rivaled the strongest of Mirabar’s men.
The fat man sitting on the cushioned throne, the Marchion of Mirabar, smirked at her and waved his hands in disgust.
“I had, and have, more important matters to attend to than to see to the needs of an unannounced visitor,” the marchion said, staring hard at Agrathan as he spoke, “even if that visitor is the King of Mithral Hall. Besides, is it not your duty, and not mine own, to negotiate trade agreements?”
“King Bruenor did not come here for any such purpose, by any reports,” Shoudra protested, drawing another wave of Marchion Elastul’s thick hands.
Elastul shook his head and looked about at his Hammers, his principal attendants, scarred old warriors all.
“Might that she should’ve met with Bruenor anyway,” Djaffar, the leader of the group, remarked. He nudged the marchion’s shoulder. “Shoudra’s got a trick or two that could soften even a dwarf!”
The other three soldier-advisors and Marchion Elastul burst out in snickers at that. Shoudra Stargleam narrowed her blue eyes and assumed a defiant pose, crossing her arms over her chest.
To the side, Agrathan shifted again. He knew Shoudra could handle herself, and that she, like all the folk of Mirabar who had any access to Elastul, was used to the liberties of protocol often taken by the vulgar Hammers and by the marchion himself. His was an inherited position, unlike the elected councilors and sceptrana.
“He asked to see you, Marchion, not me and not the council,” Shoudra reminded curtly, ending the snickers.
“And what am I to do with the likes of Bruenor Battlehammer?” Elastul replied. “Dine with him? Cater to him, and quietly explain to him that he will soon be irrelevant?”
Shoudra looked over at Agrathan plaintively, and the dwarf cleared his throat, drawing the marchion’s attention.
“Ye wouldn’t be doing well to underestimate Bruenor,” Agrathan advised. “His boys’re good at what they do.”
“Irrelevant,” Elastul said again, settling back comfortably. “That curiosity piece Gandalug is dead, may the stones powder his bones, and Bruenor is inheriting a kingdom on the decline.”
Again, Shoudra looked over at Agrathan, this time wearing a doubting smirk, for she and the dwarf knew what was coming.
“More than two dozen metallurgists and alchemists.” Elastul boasted. “I’m paying them well, and they’ll be showing results soon enough!”
Agrathan lowered his eyes so that Elastul wouldn’t see his doubting expression as the marchion went on to describe the most recent promises of those folks he had hired in an effort to strengthen the metal produced by Mirabar’s mines. The metallurgists had been promising from the day they arrived, several years before, combinations of strength and flexibility beyond anything anyone in all the world could produce. Grand, and as far as Agrathan believed, empty claims all.
Agrathan hadn’t worked the mines in over a century—since he had turned to the practice of preaching the word of Dumathoin—but as a priest of that dwarf god, a deity who was known as the Keeper of Secrets Under the Mountain, Agrathan firmly believed that the claims of the hired alchemists and metallurgists were not among those secrets. To Agrathan, if some magical way to enhance any metal wasn’t among the secrets of Dumathoin, then it simply didn’t exist.
The hired group was very good at what it did. What it did, as far as Agrathan was concerned, was keep the marchion curious and intrigued enough to keep the gold flowing, and that was all that was flowing. Mirabar boasted less than half the dwarves of Mithral Hall, just over two thousand, and several hundred of those were busy serving in the Axe, keeping the mines clear of monsters. The thousand who worked the mines could barely meet the quotas set out by the Council of Sparkling Stones each year and that from existing veins. Little exploration was being done at the deeper levels, where the dangers were greater, but so too were the true promises of better quality in the form of better ore.
The simple fact was that Mirabar couldn’t afford to cut production long enough to seek out those better veins, so the marchion had fallen into the scam of these supposed specialists—with not a dwarf among them—who claimed to understand metals so well. Besides, to Agrathan’s thinking, if there were such processes as the marchion believed, why hadn’t they been put in practice centuries before? Why hadn’t these metallurgists and alchemists reduced the dwarves of Mithral Hall, the dwarves of all the world, to positions of providing base material alone? They promised weapons, armor, and other metal goods strong enough to outshine anything Bruenor’s folk might produce, and yet, if they knew of such secrets, if there were such secrets, then why weren’t there weapons of legend that had been produced through such processes?
“Even if your specialists deliver their promises, we will still be far from making King Bruenor and Mithral Hall ‘irrelevant’,” Shoudra Stargleam replied, and Agrathan was glad that she was taking the lead. “They are out-producing us in volume more than three-to-two.”
The marchion waved his hands at her. “There was nothing for me to say to Bruenor Battlehammer anyway. Why did he come here? Who invited him? Who asked …” He ended with a derisive snort.
“Perhaps we should not have allowed him entrance,” Shoudra remarked.
Agrathan looked up at Elastul, guessing correctly the dangerous glare the marchion would be offering to Shoudra at that moment. When word that King Bruenor was at Mirabar’s gate had been passed along, it had been Elastul’s decision to let Bruenor and the others in. None on the council, or the sceptrana, had even been informed until the Clan Battle-hammer dwarves had already set up their carts on Mirabar’s streets.
“Yes, perhaps my faith in the loyalty of my citizens was misplaced,” the marchion countered, harsh words aimed more at Agrathan, the dwarf knew, than at Shoudra. “I expected King Bruenor to find greater embarrassment than rejection by the ruler of the city. I expected the folk of Mirabar to know enough to not even bother with our guests.”
Agrathan glanced over to see that the marchion was indeed staring directly at him as he spoke. No humans, after all, had gone to do business with Clan Battlehammer, only dwarves, and Agrathan was the highest-ranking dwarf in the city, the unofficial leader and voice of Mirabar’s two thousand.
“Have you spoken with Master Hammerstriker?”
“What would ye have me say?” Agrathan asked.
While he was the accepted voice for the dwarves among the human leaders, that wasn’t always the case among the Mirabarran dwarves themselves.
“I would have you remind Master Hammerstriker where his loyalties lie,” the marchion replied. “Or where they should lie.”
Agrathan worked hard to keep his expre
ssion placid, to hide the sudden storm welling inside of him. The loyalty of Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker could not be questioned. The crusty old warrior had served the marchion, and the marchion before him, and before him, and before him, and before him, and before him, for longer than any human in the city could remember, longer than the long dead parents of the dead parents of any human in the city could have remembered. Torgar had been among the leading soldiers charging along the tunnels of the upper Underdark against monsters more foul than anything any of the marchion’s Hammers—those elite advisors selected supposedly because of their glorious veteran warrior status—had ever known. When the orc hordes attacked Mirabar, a hundred and seventeen years past, Torgar and a very few other dwarves had held the eastern wall strong against the assault, fending off the hordes while the bulk of Mirabar’s warriors had been engaged on the western wall, against what had proven to be no more than a feint by the enemy. In scars, wounds, and cunning victories, Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker had earned his position as a leader among the Axe.
But even to Agrathan the marchion’s words rang with a bit of truth. It wasn’t a question of loyalty, as far as Agrathan was concerned, but rather one of judgment. Torgar and his fellows had not understood the implications of trading with their rivals from Mithral Hall or from subsequently socializing with them.
With that, Agrathan and Shoudra left the agitated marchion, walking side by side along the outer corridors of the palace and out into the pale sunlight of the late afternoon. A chill breeze was blowing, a reminder to the pair that in Mirabar, winter was never far away.
“You will approach Torgar with a bit more gentleness than Marchion Elastul showed?” Shoudra asked the dwarf, her smile one of genuine amusement.
As sceptrana, Shoudra was involved in signing trade agreements. With the rise of Mithral Hall, she too had suffered, or at least her work had. Shoudra Stargleam had taken it more in stride than many others in the city, though, including many of the dwarves. To her, the way to beat Mithral Hall was to increase production and find better ore for better product. To her, the rise of a trading rival should be the catalyst to make Mirabar stronger.
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