"Call me Kherdorn," the elder dwarf said over his shoulder, speaking in the Reachtongue now. "Even for one who speaks the Stonetongue, my true name would be too much for a human to pronounce."
"Well met, Kherdorn," Tal said, ignoring the slight. Dwarves, like elves, often thought less of humans next to their kind. He could hardly blame them. In many ways, his own Ardent Bloodline was like rats compared to them, only able to dominate the Westreach from their comparatively brief breeding and growth cycles. In every other manner, dwarves possessed superior natural capacities.
As long as they don't have the World's own blood running through their veins, he mused. For all the good it's doing me now.
Even as he thought it, a fresh shiver of fragility ran through his body, making his step falter. He tried to disguise the moment's weakness with a yawn, only having to stretch a little to feign tiredness.
Kherdorn led him through the settlement toward the edifice at its center. Vathda felt even stranger up close. He was used to seeing dwarven structures housed in the vast caverns of Dhuulheim, in which they made their homes in the Westreach. To see stone hovels emerging out into the open, their curved doorways piled with snow, was a queer sight.
Finally, their party arrived at the great hall, where Kherdorn pounded thrice on the heavy wooden door. A call came from within, and the silver-bearded dwarf wrenched it open and gestured impatiently for Tal to enter after him.
The great hall stretched half as wide as King Aldric's throne room, and it was filled with tables and benches that showed it functioned as a dining hall as much as in any other capacity. Yet with the ceiling vaulted two dozen feet above, and boasting beams twice as thick around as Tal, it made for an impressive sight nonetheless.
As Tal stepped through the doorway, he sighed with relief. Heat from the two roaring hearths on either end of the hall flooded over him, promising relief from freezing fingers and frigid feet that hadn't thawed since leaving Elendol. He longed to throw himself before one of the fires, but Kherdorn walked between the sparsely populated tables toward the chair at the dais opposite to the door.
The chieftain of a clan was beheld as almost a king among dwarves, and he sat in a throne befitting one. Carved of black slate, it was studded with gemstones, emeralds and rubies winking in the firelight. The dwarf sitting atop it did not stir as he watched them approach. His beard was the deep brown-red of rust and was groomed and oiled so it shone as it tumbled into his lap in an intricate weaving of braids. His eyes were nearly black, glittering only faintly as he watched Tal come closer. A shining iron crown sat atop his head, bereft of ornamentation beyond its intricate carvings. The lack of finery was either a symbol of strength or privation, Tal recalled from his past experiences. Neither boded well for his present position.
Situated twenty feet from the throne was a wide rug. Here, Kherdorn stopped and fell to one knee. Tal followed suit, trying and failing to hide a wince as his body protested the movement. He bowed his head and waited.
"Clan Chief, good Lord Dathal," Kherdorn spoke, "a traveler has come to our borders this evening requesting shelter. He is a pauper, but claims to have skills we might make use of."
Tal raised his head then. Dwarves maintained strict hierarchies within the clans, but they also despised timidity and admired boldness. He hoped this chieftain would hold the same beliefs.
Lord Dathal still did not move or speak. As far as Tal knew, his eyes had not left him the entire time he had entered the great hall. Seconds passed. A dribble of sweat trickled down Tal's back. Still, he held the chieftain's gaze and waited.
"I know you." The Clan Chief murmured the words in the Reachtongue like he was recalling a dream. "I know your face."
Tal's gut tightened, but he smiled. "I suppose I have one of those faces you see others in. Folks have always told me so."
"No." Dathal spoke more forcefully as he shifted his position, leaning forward in the stone chair. "I know your face. And I know your name."
"My name is Bran Cairn, m'lord."
"Lies!"
The Clan Chief roared the word as he stood. Tal flinched. He wondered if, even now, an axe's blade was being sharpened for his neck.
But he did not rise, and he did not look away. If he was to be condemned, he would face it as a dwarf would, with eyes set on the killing blade.
The Clan Chief slowly descended the stairs of his dais to stand before Tal. With a gloved hand, he took Tal's chin and wrenched his head upward as he leaned over him. He could smell the waft of ale on the dwarf's breath.
"I know your name, Khuldanaam'defarnaam," the Clan Chief said softly. "And I know your face. You are the one who banished my clan from Dhuulheim to these frozen wilds. You, Gerald Barrows, are the craven sorcerer who killed my uncle."
As the full import of Dathal's words soaked in, Tal was too surprised to dodge the chieftain's hand crashing against his cheek.
Death’s Hand
Tal crumpled beneath the Clan Chief's blow.
The rug beneath him did little to cushion his fall to the floorboards. A coppery taste filtered between his teeth. His jaw ached from the blow.
Slowly, his eyes slid up to Lord Dathal, who stood motionless over him. The room seemed to hold its breath; all but the fires were still and silent. Tal did not dare move further lest he provoke more of a drubbing. His head pounded like a bladesmith's hammer during war. He doubted that he could dam his sorcery after another blow like that, and that would doom them all.
So he remained silent and still, and he waited.
After several long moments, the Clan Chief turned away. "Get up," he commanded, his deep voice dripping with disgust.
Tal slowly raised himself to his knees; then, after a moment's deliberation, he climbed to his feet. Dignity seemed as petty as a cockerel's strutting in this situation, but if he was going to be condemned to death, he meant to meet it standing.
"You're right," Tal said, the words coming out garbled from his uncooperative jaw. "I was once called Gerald Barrows. But only one clan called me 'Death's Hand.'"
Dathal had seated himself on his throne once more and leaned on one of the arms. "Yes. My clan — the Hardrogs."
For a moment, all Tal could do was close his eyes and smile. Of all the dwarves that might have settled here, he had the bad luck of it being Clan Hardrog.
He opened his eyes to Dathal's flinty stare. "I don't suppose any amount of explanation will change things?"
The Clan Chief did not reply for a long moment. When he did, his words turned aside Tal's question.
"Fifteen years ago, a human vagrant entered the Hardrog halls in search of dark work. My uncle permitted you to come among us; he even gave you employment. You! A hound with blood on his teeth, and he hired you!"
"A hound was what he needed," Tal murmured.
"He got what he paid for, my uncle," Dathal continued as if Tal hadn't spoken. "In the end, you bit the hand as well as the meat, as the old saying goes. With his blood on your knife, you fled the halls and left my clan in pieces."
"Lord Yardin was your uncle," Tal interrupted. "But he had sired heirs. How have you ended up as the Clan Chief?"
Dathal bared his teeth, no part of it a smile. "He had heirs before you intervened, Death's Hand. The war you began ended with many dead, my cousins among them. I was next in line. But by that time, another faction had gathered strength I could not hope to match. Rather than lose more of my people, I became a chieftain in exile, and we crossed the Fringes to establish a new home in these gods-forsaken mountains."
The chieftain's fists clenched against the stone arms of his chair. For a moment, Tal thought he might charge down the stairs and begin pummeling him again. He wondered if he would resist.
Silence knows a beating is the least I deserve for all I've done.
But after a moment, Dathal relaxed his muscles. His voice was tired now. "After many trials, we came here and saw it was good stone to build into. And so we have built, and fortified, and carved out a refuge.
But never have we forgotten the home we left behind."
The Clan Chief's eyes slid down to Tal. He felt blood trickle from the corner of his mouth, but he didn't wipe it away under that stare. He felt like a mouse beneath a hawk's gaze; any movement might bring him sweeping down.
"After all we have suffered by your hand," Dathal said slowly, "what can we do with you, Gerald Barrows?"
Tal shrugged. His usual bitter amusement fought to climb free of him, but a laugh now might spell the end of his life. "Would it help if I told you I killed Yardin only because I was under threat?"
Lord Dathal was not as restrained in his laughter as Tal was. He threw his head back, and the sound of it filled the great hall. It must have been a common display, for the dwarves knew better than to join in.
When he'd calmed, his dark eyes slid back down to Tal. "The gods see you, Death's Hand. They see you as you are. Your deeds are your own. A warrior who kills a comrade in the middle of a melee is held to murder, and condemned as such. No exceptions will be made for a human."
Already, he felt the noose tightening around his neck. But no — for this transgression, they would kill him according to the old dwarf customs. They would stake him to a wide, flat stone. Then they'd crush his bones with a boulder, one by one, until finally, they cracked open his skull.
His mind whirled through his options, discarding each fleeting possibility. Pim would not save him; he had abandoned him even before the danger was evident. Though, if the elf knew more than he'd let on, he may well have been aware of the deadly situation they went into, and set Tal up for some unknown reason.
There would be no aid from among the dwarves. Loyalty to clan was bred into them from the day their babes drew their first breath. No amount of sympathy for a human, should Tal be able to muster any, would move them to spare his life.
No rescue from without or within — his salvation lay with one, vague hope, the least reliable of liberators: himself.
"Lord Dathal," Tal said, firming his voice and resolve, "I don't deny what I've done, but lay full claim to the misdeeds. However, there is more to this tale than you know. If I am to be judged for my actions, I would ask that you take into account my testimony as well."
The chieftain didn't move for a moment; then he lifted his hand in a beckoning gesture. Tal took it as an unexpected invitation to continue, and he opened his mouth to begin spinning his tale.
The next moment, he reeled forward and fell painfully to his knees, the back of his head throbbing with a sudden blow.
"I don't need the lies from a murderer to know his verdict," Dathal said above him. "Be silent, before I have your tongue cut from your mouth."
Tal clenched his fingers against the ground, the missing nubs throbbing. Within himself, he waged a war he was losing. Sorcery leaked through his dam, trickling into his blood and warming him. Fresh blood had filled his mouth from biting his tongue, and its flavor changed to the bitter taste of sulphur.
He stared at his hands and clenched them into fists. Where his fingers had touched the stone, black scorches remained behind. The sorcery ebbed stronger within him with each passing moment.
As if from a distance, he heard the chieftain's barked orders. "Take him out of my sight. I'll deal with him on the morrow."
Tal kept every muscle clenched tight as dwarves roughly lifted him by the arms and dragged him from the great hall.
Somehow, he restrained the sorcery that would have killed them all.
Passage I
Ambition flows in the blood of Yuldor Soldarin.
Though I only knew him as a man grown, his tragic past was legend among those of us who followed him. How it affected him, I cannot rightly say — Yuldor was never one to broach any topics of emotions and inadequacies. But from my personal experience with the man, I can infer much.
His parents were traitors. When Yuldor was still a babe, his grandmother garnered the support of a minority of other Highkin families, and House Soldarin invaded House Elendola in an attempt to overthrow the monarch of that time, Queen Geminia the First. It was doomed to fail from the start. Geminia was prodigious in her sorcery, and with the aid of her Ilthasi and the Masters of the Towers, they had no hope of overcoming her.
Geminia the First was not known for her mercy, and to the last, all of the traitors were executed. Only when it came to Yuldor did her bloodlust cease. To expunge a House from existence is a great sin in the Mother's eyes, and even the Queen could not find guilt in an infant. She spared his life and gave him to a Lowkin family, and House Soldarin continued on — if only in name.
Perhaps it was this early mercy that caused her to stay her hand later, when Yuldor began to express power that eclipsed even her own and showed a zeal to match it. Or perhaps even she feared to provoke him, and so sentenced him to a banishment he willingly accepted.
As for Yuldor, I do not think vengeance ever died in his heart, but only grew to include all of the Mother's creations. To him, the entirety of the World had been party to his family's demise, and all deserved to suffer for it.
It was only after he'd ascended that I truly began to understand this. Only after he sent the monsters down from Ikvaldar.
- The Untold Lore of Yuldor Soldarin and His Servants, by Inanis
A Warm Welcome
They reached Vathda in the early afternoon of the third day.
Wren spotted the town first. "There it is," she said, bringing Garin's attention to the far side of the river, where gargantuan boulders rose from the landscape. Capped with snow, they resembled frosted pastries such as he had indulged in while staying at the Coral Castle.
"Those are just rocks," Garin said drily. "I know dwarves live in stone, but I've met Yelda, and she's not made of rocks."
"Ha, ha. Use your eyes, numbskull — look toward the cliffs."
Garin squinted beyond the monoliths and saw it almost immediately: the slope of a roof. They could only glimpse part of the building, but it appeared to be as large as any domicile in Hunt's Hollow.
"We made it." He imagined eating a meal without fearing it would be half-frozen by the time he finished. And that was only the beginning of his fantasies: a hot hearth, a warm bath, a soft bed…
A thought brought the dreaming to an abrupt halt. "Dwarves don't sleep on rocks, do they?"
Wren snorted. "Yelda never turned her nose up at a down mattress. But I guess we'll find out."
A bridge, just wide enough for the merchants' sleighs, spanned the sluggish river. It was the first sign of dwarven craftsmanship, and Garin had to admit it looked far sturdier than any bridge on which he'd set foot before. On the other end of the crossing, two of the stocky folk stood guard. He could hardly believe their size. Yelda had been short, but only a hand's width wider. These two stretched two times the span of Garin's shoulders, and though his frame was admittedly rangy, the difference was astounding.
The merchant stepped free of his sleigh. It was one of the few times Garin had glimpsed the caravan leader during their journey. He was a human Easterner, portly and richly dressed, as befitted his profession and prosperity. With two guards flanking him, the merchant approached the bridge's sentinels. Their conversation was brief, the frigid weather necessitating brevity, and soon the trader was scurrying back inside his cabin. A moment later, the train was gliding across the stone and onto the other side to ascend to the village.
One of the guards had turned back to approach their party, and he recognized her as the woman he'd spoken to during their first encounter with the caravan. Garin gathered close with the others to hear the guard's words.
"Are we permitted to cross?" Ashelia asked. One arm held Rolan tight against her chest, which the boy seemed to resent, but did not protest.
The guard nodded. "Speak with dwarves first. If all well, you cross."
With a farewell wave, the guard turned and rode after her companions.
Ashelia turned back to the others, her storm-gray eyes sweeping over them. "Mind your tongue around dwarves," s
he warned them. "They are quick to take offense, and we cannot afford to give any."
"They can't be any pricklier than Highkin elves," Wren quipped, smirking as the color in Ashelia's eyes whirled a little faster.
"And that," Helnor said, "is exactly the sort of thing we don't need." But he flashed a grin at Wren from behind Ashelia's back.
Rolan, catching the exchange, giggled, to his mother's frown.
"Enough!" Aelyn snapped, turning his stor toward the bridge. "Can you not control yourselves when our lives depend on it?"
Garin caught Wren's eye and raised an eyebrow. "Still happy with your choice of mentor?"
"Not much choice, was there?" she muttered with a glance at Kaleras, who had followed promptly behind Aelyn. "You snagged the only other option."
"What about Ashelia?"
"She's got her hands full between corralling us and looking after Rolan. Besides, she may be an adept hand at healing, but I'm looking for a different sort of sorcery."
He shrugged as they followed at the end of their party's line. "I'd learn from her if I could. Healing is as likely to be needed out here as anything Aelyn or Kaleras can teach. Just because it's not useful in a fight doesn't mean it's not worth learning."
Wren only frowned in reply.
Ashelia and Helnor spoke for a moment with the dwarves, who seemed friendly enough toward them, especially considering they were strangers approaching in the dead of winter. Garin guessed that either the merchant's word had gone a long way, or these dwarves were of a sunnier disposition than Ashelia had made them out to be. Whichever it was, he smiled and nodded to them as they passed, and the sentries grunted greetings in return.
Word was passed back to him and Wren of their destination: Vathda's great hall. There, the chieftain of the dwarven clan awaited them to hear their supplications. Garin found his gut prickling with anticipation. Either they would learn something of Tal, or their last hope of a lead would be dashed.
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 7