Dan Parkinson - The Covenant of The Forge

“We are here to stay, if that’s what you mean. No humans or anyone else will drive us out. We seek Everbardin here, in Kal-Thax.” Colin Stonetooth leaned forward in his saddle, gazing from one to another of them. “Do any of you question that we can defend what we choose to defend?”

There was no answer to that. Of all the dwarven troops standing cordon along the eastern flank of Kal-Thax, nearly a third were here, ringed and helpless, held hostage by a few hundred strangers with strange skills.

“Then so be it.” Colin Stonetooth nodded. “We do not want war with people of our own kind. You, Olim Goldbuckle! I ask your pledge of peace and a council of Thanes. Do you agree?”

Olim shrugged. “I agree,” he said.

The Hylar turned. “You, Slide Tolec! Do you also agree?”

The Theiwar squinted at him, hating him but helpless to contest his will. Then he spread his hands. “I agree,” he said.

Colin turned to Vog Ironface. “And you? Will you show me your face and agree to what I ask?”

“I will agree,” the hollow voice rumbled. “But I will not blind myself for your pleasure.”

“A dark-seeker,” Colin muttered curiously. Then he nodded and turned toward the wildly clad Klar. “And you, Bole Trune of Thane Klar?”

The Klar seemed taken aback at the idea that anyone would ask for his promise. But he shrugged. “I agree,” he said. Turning, he scowled fiercely about at others of his kind. “My word is given! I kill any Klar who breaks it!”

From somewhere, deep in the crowd, a wavering voice offered, “Highbulp prob’ly ag … agr … go’long with that, too, when he wake up. That okay?”

With a gesture, Colin Stonetooth backed his mount away, and the line of shields withdrew, companies of Hylar moving in perfect unison to a tattoo of drums.

Olim Goldbuckle frowned. Drums! So these were the ones! He snapped his fingers, and a Daewar picked up his sword and shield and handed them to him. “You called for a Council of Thanes!” he called to the Hylar leader. “When and where?”

“When the passes are blocked by winter,” Colin called back. “But first” — he turned, scanning the foothills below the line of defense — “I believe we could give those people out there something to think about until spring.”

Without waiting for a response, the Hylar leader wheeled his horse and headed eastward at a trot, his ten bodyguards flanking him purposefully. Behind him, companies of mounted Hylar spread and followed in a widening spearhead formation. Hylar footmen formed precise companies and followed, trotting along behind and among the mounted units. Within moments the Hylar army had become a deadly wedge of armed dwarves, banners aloft and drums singing, heading for the camps of the humans on the ridges below.

Olim Goldbuckle looked after them, then slung his shield and raised his sword. “Well, you heard him!” he roared. “Let’s go chase some humans!”

Within moments the hundreds of Hylar in the lead were followed by thousands of Daewar, Daergar, and Theiwar, with bands of Klar running and howling along their flanks. By the time this wall of dwarves reached the lesser slopes, entire camps of human intruders were scurrying about in panic, turning to flee to the plains beyond.

In the highlands camp, only a few dwarves remained — a tumble of gully dwarves heading for cover, a few stragglers from other tribes, and a cluster of a hundred or so armed figures watching the assault from above.

These were a mix of kinds — mostly Theiwar, but with some Daergar among them. They clustered around an individual who might have been anything. Silently he had mingled with the others of all the camps, unnoticed except by those who chose to follow him. Though his face was obscured by Theiwar mesh, the clothing and armor he wore were an odd collection of Daewar, Daergar, Theiwar, and even Klar garb. He could have passed through any of their camps unnoticed, and had.

Now he stared after the receding Hylar force, and his eyes burned with hatred. “I do not agree,” he muttered. “Glome the Assassin will not be herded like those sheep, by a band of strangers.”

Glome had plans of his own, and no one, not even these strange Hylar, were going to stand in his way.

Methodically, relentlessly, the combined dwarven armies of eastern Kal-Thax — led by a few hundred Hylar — swept the passes and valleys below the highland range, driving vast numbers of humans and other races ahead of them. Within days, the entire border from Grand Gorge to the Cliffs of Shalomar was secured and free of most intruders.

There were clashes of arms during those days, but they were few and brief. A band of roaming goblins, taking advantage of the human disarray to raid a camp of nomadic Sackmen, found itself instead faced with the blades and shields of the Golden Hammer, Gem Bluesleeve’s Daewar strike force. Trapped between their human victims and the marching dwarves, the goblins tried to fight free. Very few survived to flee alongside the very people they had first attacked. A fighting unit of wild Sandrunners from the northern plains stood off two companies of combined Daergar and Theiwar for a day, then was massacred by Daergar in the dark of night.

And at the very edge of the foothill range, miles from the rising mountains to the west, a company of Ergothian knights and footmen — accompanied by various other natives of the land of Ergoth, trying to turn the flood of outlanders being forced back into their lands — confronted Willen Ironmaul’s elite guard at the crest of a low ridge. Twice, the human forces hit the line of mounted dwarves, and twice they were thrown back — as much by the ferocity of the Calnar horses as by the stubborn determination of the dwarves who rode them. Then, as they regrouped, Willen himself rode out from his lines and raised a hand in salute toward a familiar figure. The knight who rode forward to meet him wore a blue cloak over his mail, and a blue plume on his helm. The red falcon in stoop upon his breast was the same as it had been when last they met, and the sword he carried was an exquisite, dwarf-crafted blade with a diamond in its pommel.

“Ho, Sir Knight!” the dwarf called as Glendon Hawke approached. “Must we now test ourselves against our teacher?”

“Ho, Sir Dwarf!” Glendon retorted. “Have you found your Everbardin in those mountains?”

“We have found the place to begin our quest.” Willen nodded. “And people of our race — or fairly close — to share it if they will.”

Three knights bearing the insignia of an Ergothian lord had ridden forward, stepping their mounts past Glendon’s, edging the free lance knight aside. “And now you return here, driving outlanders before you?” one said. “These Cobar and Sackmen do not belong here, Sir Dwarf. Why do you bring them to us?”

“They do not belong in Kal-Thax, either,” Willen pointed out. “And if they tried to stay in those mountains through the winter — even if we would allow it — they would starve or freeze before spring. Is that what you humans want?”

“Of course not!” the same knight snapped. “But we can’t have them overrunning our lands. And if we push them north, toward Xak Tsaroth, the overlords there will put them to death, or send them off to Istar to be sold as slaves. We want no part of such business.”

“Then why not do something about the reason they come here?”

“What reason?” Glendon straightened in his saddle, resting his lance, ignoring the glares of the pennanted knights at his interruption.

“The dragon wars in the east,” Willen said. “Cale Greeneye has met elves who believe the dragons can be defeated, if the elves can rally enough support.”