Dan Parkinson - The Swordsheath Scroll

For a time, armies of humans had swept the lands all around. All the able male dwarves had been taken into the main shaft or herded north toward the human mines at Klanath. The old and disabled among the captives had simply disappeared, and most of the women and children had been taken away. Then the armies had gone, but still there were the guards and the overseers.

Helta dreamed lonely fantasies about sneaking away, breaking free, and getting even. Every day and night for the past two years, she had dreamed such dreams. She dreamed of escape, but more often she dreamed of bashing human skulls, of poisoning human beverages, of somehow-through some elaborate combination of craft and luck-stampeding every human in the region over a cliff, or something equally satisfying.

The thoughts were only silly fancies, but they gave her something to think about besides the never-ending drudgery and fear of life in bondage.

And sometimes she dreamed of a hero, of someone who would come marching in and lay waste to the entire human population. She envisioned a sturdy young dwarf brandishing a sword or an axe or something equally lethal, who would challenge the humans, then take them all on at once and kill every last one of them in battle, without ever ruffling his beard. She even imagined how he would look. He would wear exquisite polished armor, his helmet would be studded with gems, and his eyes would glow with strength and courage.

He would look like those old paintings she had once seen at a Neidar fair, of the magnificent Hylar warriors of the old days-back when the dwarves ruled all of Kal-Thax, and legendary Thorbardin was in its golden era.

She had never seen Thorbardin. Nobody she knew ever had. But still there were the legends, of a time when the Hylar came from the east to unite the warring tribes into a great nation and to build a mighty fortress beneath a mountain summit.

Helta paced, waving her arms back and forth, getting the kinks out of her small, sturdy frame, and letting the cool breeze cleanse her lungs and caress her face. Near the longhouse was the shed where the human masters kept their equipment, and she was tempted to slip in there again-as she had in the past-to look for weapons. But moonrise was near, and she would risk being seen. Besides, she had never found anything useful in the shed, just big coils of rope and cable, racks of heavy planking, and a row of winches and braces.

A hint of moonrise was touching the sky above the eastern peaks when she decided it was time to go back inside. She turned toward the longhouse door, then paused, listening. It seemed to her that she had heard voices, somewhere near. She listened, then decided it must be some of the humans snoring in the two cabins they used as barracks. She reached for the latch and heard something else-very clearly. A gasp, scuffling sounds, and a thud. Then, again, low masculine voices as though in fierce but quiet argument.

Curious, she crept to the corner of the longhouse and looked beyond. There in the starlight, in plain sight of the guard posts, stood two shadowy figures-a dwarf and a tall man. And they were obviously arguing.

Though their voices were only hushed whispers and angry mutterings, their gestures were plain. The dwarf pointed an angry finger at the man and muttered something, and the man threw out his hands in a gesture of exasperation. Then the man pointed his finger at the dwarf, wagging it directly in his face-and abruptly flew off balance as the dwarf grabbed his hand, pivoted, and flung the man sprawling over his shoulder to land on his back with a thud. Before the man could move, the dwarf was on top of him, covering his mouth with one hand, thumping the side of his head with the other. The man stopped struggling, and the dwarf rose to stand over him, still muttering angrily.

At that moment the rim of the white moon appeared above the eastern peaks, and there was light. The dwarf was out in the open, in plain sight of the guard perimeter.

"Oh, mercy!" Helta breathed, and ran. On flying bare feet she sprinted the dozen yards to where the dwarf stood over the fallen human. The dwarf was just turning toward her when she dodged around him, grabbed his arm and pulled him as fast as she could, back into the shadows behind the longhouse. There he gaped at her, opened his mouth to speak, and she clamped a hand over it. "Sh!" she whispered urgently. "The guards will catch you." With sudden decision, she gripped his arm, braced her feet, and propelled him toward the door, opening it and pushing him through into the longhouse.

Most of the women were asleep, but Nadeen raised her head, glanced up, then sat bolt upright. "Helta!" she whispered, "What …?"

"Sh!" Helta closed the door quietly, then half-dragged the bearded dwarf toward the ladder, again holding a hand over his mouth. "Here," she said. "Climb. I'll hide you in the loft."

Here in the candlelight, she could see him better. He wasn't anyone she knew, but he obviously needed help. His beard and hair were unkempt and filthy, his only garment was a stained, ill-fitting smock of some kind, and there was blood on his hands, on the dagger at his waist, and on the odd, sharpened stick he carried.

With eyes like saucers, Nadeen stared at him, then at Helta. "Who is this?" she whispered. "What in the name of…"

Abruptly the back door opened, and they turned toward it. The person who entered was a human, stooping to clear the low frame. He was carrying an armload of weapons of various kinds. He slipped through, closed the door behind him, and stared accusingly at the strange dwarf.

"You didn't need to give me a knot on the head," he growled. "A word of thanks would have sufficed." For a second he and the dwarf glared at each other, then the man laid his accumulated weapons on the plank table beside the ladder and turned, taking in the big room at a sweeping glance. Satisfied, he looked at Nadeen, then at Helta, and his harsh, cruel-looking human face lighted with a sincere smile. "Hello," he said. "I'm Tuft Broad-land. I've been helping your friend here kill empiremen… though he has a strange way of showing his gratitude."

High on a mountainside in a moonlit glade, an elf and a one-armed dwarf knelt beside a shallow bowl, staring into the milky liquid it held.

"He's doing well," the elf said. "All of the night guards are disposed of, and not a trace of any alarm. The other guards and mine masters are sound asleep. But there are others with him, now. The females in the longhouse, and a man."

"A man?" Calan Silvertoe's eyes widened. "A human?"

"Don't be alarmed," Despaxas said softly. "The man isn't of the empire. I would guess he is one of those nomads from the lakeshore camp."

"Well, what's he doing there, with Derkin?"

"Arguing, apparently," the elf said.

Calan snorted. "Two cabins full of sleeping enemies and a mine shaft full of goblins to take care of, and he dawdles with women and takes time out for debate with a passing nomad? What does he think he's doing?"

"I don't know," Despaxas said. "But remember, you're the one who told our chosen 'leader of dwarven forces' to do things his own way."

"No, I won't tell you about our mission," Tuft Broadland said for the third time, ignoring Derkin's ferocious frown. "Pass the bread, please."

Derkin broke a piece from the dark loaf on the table and handed the rest across. "You won't tell me what you and your friends are doing in these mountains, but still you expect me to let you wander around loose? You expect me to trust you?"

"After all," the man said, "I did save your life out there a while ago. That last guard would have killed you."

"He wouldn't have known I was there if it hadn't been for you crashing through the brush behind me," Derkin rumbled. "You're about as stealthy as a blind buffalo."