Dan Parkinson - The Covenant of The Forge

“I speak my language,” the man growled. “But not to dinks.”

“To what?”

“Dinks. Filthy dwarves .”

One of the guards shook his head, amused that this disheveled human, who smelled as though he had never in his life had a bath, should call dwarves filthy.

“You have heard what has been said, human.” Colin stood, facing the man. “What is your name, and how do you come to have this sword in your possession?”

“My name is Calik,” the man snapped. “And what I have is my own business.”

“What happened to the Suncradle patrol?” Willen Ironmaul demanded.

The man glared at him, tight-lipped.

“Who is Grayfen?” Handil the Drum asked.

The man’s eyes narrowed with hatred, but he said nothing.

Cullom Hammerstand looked up from his counting-scroll. “How many of you are there, and what do you intend?”

Still the man stood in silence.

Willen Ironmaul glanced at his chieftain. “With your permission, Sire, I might persuade this creature to talk to us.”

The man glared at him contemptuously. “It would take more than you, dink.”

Colin Stonetooth sat down. “Help yourself, Willen. But try not to damage him beyond repair.”

“ Aye .” The captain of guards nodded. Stepping away from the table, he removed his weapons and armor and strode to a clear area in the arena, clad only in kilt, shift and boots. “Send him to me,” he said.

The guards pushed the man forward, and he balked. “What is this? One man, unarmed, against dozens with swords?”

“No weapons,” Colin Stonetooth decreed. “And no one else will touch you. Only Willen.”

“He wants to fight me? One puny dwarf? So I kill him, then what? The rest of you kill me?”

“If you defeat Willen Ironmaul, human,” Handil snapped, “I will ask for your freedom. Father?”

“Agreed.” Colin nodded, turning a disinterested palm.

Again the guards hustled Calik toward Willen. When he was past the table, they gave him a shove and backed away. The man hesitated for a moment, then grinned wickedly at the unarmed dwarf waiting for him. The man stood almost a foot taller than Willen and was strongly built, with long legs, long arms, and burly shoulders. “I’ve killed a dozen real men in the pits,” he hissed. “I’ll make this quick, dink.” His grin widened, and he spread his hands as though in embarrassment. Then, abruptly, he crouched and lunged at the dwarf.

It was as though the man had run into a wall — into it and over it. There was a thud of colliding bodies, then Calik was on the floor beyond Willen, tumbling and skidding. He raised himself, shook his head, and blinked. Then, with a shouted curse, he launched himself again, towering over the dwarf, hard fists swinging.

Willen met the man halfway, went in under his blows, and delivered a jarring punch to his midsection. Even as the man gasped, the dwarf was behind him, kicking his feet out from under him, and several solid blows rained on him as he fell.

Untouched and unshaken, Willen Ironmaul stepped back. “Are you ready to talk to us, human?”

Enraged, Calik got his feet under him, rushed, whirled, and aimed a lethal kick at the dwarf’s head. Strong hands blocked his leg, twisting it, and Calik fell on his face. Willen Ironmaul twisted the man’s arms behind him, ground his face against the stone floor, then stood and delivered a judicious kick to his ribs. “Now are you ready to talk to us?” he asked. “Everyone is waiting.”

Calik’s response was a sudden kick that caught Willen in the side and sent him staggering back. Snake-quick, the man pressed his advantage with a rush, a knee to the dwarf’s face, and a two-fisted blow to the back of the neck that might have killed a human. Willen went to his knees, seeming dazed, and the man threw himself onto him, trying to bear him down, to get a killing hold on throat or spine. But the dwarf who had seemed dazed suddenly was upright beneath him, lifting. In an instant, Willen had the flailing, writhing man above his head, and with a heave he threw him across ten feet of empty floor.

Calik lit, rolled, and crashed against the side of the council table. Before he could move, Willen was on him, pummeling, punishing and bruising him. Calik screamed.

Willen felt small, strong hands pulling him away. Tera Sham’s voice said, “Willen, please! That’s enough!”

He let her pull him back, breathing deeply to clear the battle-rage from his head. She was right, of course. The man lay groveling on the floor, obviously defeated. Willen turned toward Tera and heard a gasp as her eyes looked beyond him. Calik was not through. With a shout he came upright, grabbed the sword from in front of Colin Stonetooth, and raised it over his head. When it fell, slashing downward, its bright edge barely missed Tera. Willen pushed the girl back, out of the way, and waved off the dozen or more armed dwarves who were rushing toward him. “Stay!” he commanded. “The human has made his choice.”

Willen ducked aside from the maddened human’s second cut, dodged the third, and went in under the fourth. In the blink of an eye, Calik was bent over backward, the sword still waving in his hand, and Willen’s short, massive arm was around his neck. With his other arm, the dwarf locked the man’s shoulder … and pivoted, twisting.

The sound of Calik’s neck breaking was almost drowned by the clang of the dropped sword falling from a dead hand.

Willen stepped away, letting the big body slump to the floor. He looked toward Colin Stonetooth. “He chose not to speak, Sire,” he said.

“It is a bad omen,” Tolon Farsight muttered.

“A bad business,” Handil agreed. “Humans — even those friendly to us — won’t like dwarves killing humans.”

“I had no choice,” Willen Ironmaul told him. “You saw it.”

“No, it was his choice,” Handil agreed. “But there will be anger.”

Guards hurried forward to drag Calik away. At the council table, Frost Steelbit stood. “There are many questions, Sire,” he said to the chieftain. “But the first of the questions faces us now. With what we have seen, and what we might guess, do we continue with Balladine this year?”

Before the chieftain could answer, his second son, Tolon Farsight, pushed forward. “Cancel the Balladine, Father,” he said. “This business is an omen. Thorin is in danger from humans. It is best to barricade and guard, and let no human approach this season.”

“The people of Golash and Chandera are our friends,” Colin pointed out. “They have not threatened us.”

“Humans threaten us!” Tolon growled. “Does it matter which ones? I say bar them from Thorin. The danger is more than the gain.”

Colin Stonetooth gazed around at all of them thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Balladine is as important to us as it is to our neighbors,” he said. “We need the humans’ goods in trade, just as they need ours. Let the call continue, let the plans proceed. But” — he stood, turning away — “we shall be very careful this time. Very careful indeed. Tell the people to look to the left side of their tools.”

The left side of the tools.

Every Calnar past the age of first-crafting knew the meaning of that. From the old tales came many sayings, each with a wisdom of its own. One was, “If there are enemies, raise your hammer and see it in a mirror.”

The meaning was clear. In Thorin, though the finest of weapons were crafted there, few people owned swords and lances. Except for the finely made weapons carried by the guards, and the elaborate, exquisitely balanced blades carried by a few others, including the chieftain and the Ten, “weapons” were scarce. A sword was a clumsy, heavy thing, useless for any kind of work except fighting. For games and as a climbing tool a balanced javelin was far better than a lance, and bows and arrows were of no practical value in the delving of stone, the crafting of furniture and finery, the weaving of tapestries or the shaping of clay vessels.