Dan Parkinson - The Covenant of The Forge

“Yes, I know about the elves. They came looking for me. They said I was recommended by dwarves. They also have spoken to the lords of eastern Ergoth.”

“And will you help them?”

“Some have already gone,” an Ergothian knight said haughtily, “and others are considering it.”

“And you, Sir Glendon?”

“It is difficult to say no to an elf named Eloeth. But I was needed here first. A village has employed me as its … well, its champion.” He glanced aside at the knights, two of whom were frowning at him. “Well, people can’t wait forever for the leaders of Ergoth to come to agreement with those bullies in Xak Tsaroth!”

Willen wondered what that was all about, but no explanations seemed forthcoming. He shifted, to point behind him, where laden clouds flowed among the Kharolis peaks. “Winter is at hand up there, human. And we are up there. There is nothing more you and your countrymen can do here … unless it is to assure the slaughter of people of your own kind.”

“Cobar and Sackmen?” a knight sneered. “Sandrunners and Morion bandits? They are not of our kind!”

“They are human,” Willen Ironmaul pointed out. “You can deal with them or drive them away, but not to the west. Not now.”

One of the three pennanted knights — a burly, gray-bearded man in battle-scarred armor — had said nothing, only listened curiously. But now he raised a gloved hand. “The dwarf is right,” he said. “Within a week, the passes up there will be closed. These migrants would stand no chance. It may be that the time is at hand for duty to bend the knee to honor on this front.” He turned to gaze at Willen Ironmaul, and the big dwarf felt the impact of cold, gray eyes as direct and forceful as those of Colin Stonetooth himself. “You may retire from the field, Sir Dwarf. You have accomplished what you came to do. For now.”

Without waiting for a reply, the gray knight wheeled his mount and rode away, his two companions following him obediently. Willen stared after him, then asked, “Who was that?”

“That,” Glendon said, “was Lord Charon, and I imagine you are the first dwarf he has ever honored with a word.” The falcon knight raised his hand in salute and backed his sturdy horse away. “Farewell, Sir Dwarf. But heed carefully what you have heard. Lord Charon said, ‘For now.’ You will have no further intrusions while the snows last. But with spring … well, as I said, these people aren’t our people, and when they can go, they will go where they will.”

*

When snows filled the passes below the Windweavers, Colin Stonetooth led his warriors back to the promontory of the camps. Cale Greeneye and a group from Hybardin awaited him there with news.

For some time Colin Stonetooth conferred with Mistral Thrax, beside a fire where the old dwarf sat swathed in furs. Then the chieftain called the rest to him for their reports.

The sealed tunnel behind the old Daewar stronghold on Sky’s End had been opened, and Wight Anvil’s-Cap had led explorers into it. The tunnel was a marvel of delving, they reported — nearly fifty miles in length and blocked at intervals by heavy grills made of iron railing, which the metalworkers in the party had removed. At the tunnel’s end was a system of natural caverns deep beneath the surface. There, keeping themselves hidden, Hylar scouts had seen dwarves — Daewar, by the runes on the walls — doing things with what appeared to be giant worms. Beyond were other guarded tunnels.

The explorers had turned back to await the chieftain’s orders, but Wight Anvil’s-Cap was convinced by what he saw there that the huge cavern they had seen was just the first of many. He was excited by the possibilities. The cavern was miles in dimensions, and sky-lighted by quartz strata — not as well lighted as Thorin with its sun-tunnels, but light, nonetheless. There was fresh air, ventilation, and — in the judgment of Talam Bendiron, who knew of such things — there seemed plentiful water somewhere near.

“Light at the end of the tunnel,” Colin mused. “I was right, then. The sun-people tunneled through darkness because they knew there would be light.”

And there was more to the report. Cale Greeneye and his roving scouts had followed a group of Daewar returning from the slopes, and had seen them enter a hidden gate at the foot of a cliff on Cloudseeker Mountain, beneath the Windweaver crags. The gate was due south of the opening on Sky’s End, and Wight Anvil’s-Cap calculated that it was a second passage, leading downward to the same tunnel he had explored. In the same vicinity, only a few miles away, were the high, shallow caves where many of the Theiwar seemed to be concentrated.

“It appears that the sun-lovers tunneled beneath their neighbors,” Cale noted, “as though they knew what they would find there.”

Colin Stonetooth made a mental note to never underestimate the Daewar or their prince, Olim Goldbuckle. Stepping away from the fire, where Wight Anvil’s-Cap was helping Mistral Thrax brew a mix of herbal tea and hot ale, he beckoned to his youngest son and pointed eastward. On the slopes below, large groups of dwarves were trudging upward toward them — several distinct groups, shunning each other but all coming the same way.

“Our allies are returning,” Colin said. “Soon it will be time for the council they promised. I think we should council in the caverns that Wight has spied below. It will be a delicate matter, though. Our Daewar friends might resent intrusion.”

“Not to mention the Theiwar resenting the Daewar’s intrusion under their mountain.” Cale grinned. “And those people of the iron faces — the Daergar — they seem to resent everybody, just on general principle.”

“Complex relationships make for complex negotiations.” Colin shrugged. “I will send Willen and his elites north with these people, to approach from there through the long tunnel. The foot companies will accompany me to that hidden gate, and I shall call for the thanes’ council there. Reorx grant me the wisdom, maybe I can get all of these various people to talk before they begin to fight.”

“Reorx grant you a lot of wisdom to do that,” Cale said, seriously. Then, “What do you want of me, Father?”

“Take your scouts, and any other volunteers you can get from Willen’s troops. Set lookouts on the peaks. With the borders of Kal-Thax closed now, when the drums call, these tribes and many others — those Einar you have seen — will come. Some may be combative at first, and I want no surprises. Once we are gathered — and at peace — I would like a thorough exploration of this region. I leave that to you.”

“That is duty of my choice.” Cale nodded, then raised an eyebrow. “Father, since leaving Thoradin, have you ever wished to return?”

Colin frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I never have,” his son said. “I think I was always restless there, as though I were trapped by the city itself. Now I find — and some of the others do, too — that I have no real liking for caverns and tunnels, for stone ceilings and walls. I wonder if I — if a lot of us — are really true dwarves. Some of us prefer the axe to the hammer, and prefer the sun to the stone.”

Colin rubbed his beard thoughtfully then said, “No dwarf may tell another what he will be, Cale. For my part, the proper way to live is in good delvings, beneath the standing peaks. But not all are so inclined. You are a true dwarf, Cale, but some prefer the sun to the stone. In Thorin … Thoradin … in your grandsire’s time, when they were still constructing the sun-tunnels, some people preferred to set the outer sleeves rather than the inner. There was a name for them, which was said with great respect. They were called the Neidar.”