Dan Parkinson - The Swordsheath Scroll

When the man returned, followed by nearly two hundred dwarves and thirty armed goblins-the entire company-the compound was empty. The man strode to the front door of the longhouse, opened it, and jerked a thumb at the dwarves. "Inside," he said.

Sullen and silent, the prisoners filed through the door while grinning goblins prodded them from behind.

Thoroughly occupied with tormenting their charges, none of the goblins saw that both doors of the building were open, and as fast as the dwarves entered the front, they were hustled out the back, handed something that would serve as a weapon-prybars, hammers, table legs, saw blades, anything available-and led around to the far side of the equipment shed. Only when the last dwarf had entered the building did a few goblins look inside and notice there were only a dozen or so dwarves, and they were turning to attack.

One goblin actually got into the longhouse, impaling a dwarf on his bronze sword before another dwarf brained it with a stool. The rest were stopped at the door and pressed back, dwarves flailing away at them with anything that came to hand.

His sword singing like winter wind, Tuft Broadland beheaded one goblin and cut the legs out from under another before the rest realized that he was attacking them. Then when they turned toward him, a howling, surging tide of armed dwarves came around the corner of the building, flooding through and over them. Dark, rancid goblin blood flowed like water.

Most of the goblins fell within moments, overwhelmed and outnumbered. A few broke and ran, but were quickly overtaken and killed. Derkin had made it clear that no enemy was to be allowed to escape, and the dwarves were thorough in their slaughter.

When it was over, four dwarves were counted dead and three others injured. At Derkin's direction, the victors collected every goblin corpse in the vicinity, as well as those of the dead slavers hidden in the other cabin, and threw all the bodies into an abandoned pit, which they then filled in. They kept all the fallen weapons and bits of human armor. The goblins' armor was buried with them. As Derkin explained to Tuft, no dwarf would ever wear anything that had been worn by a goblin. It was impossible to wash out the stench.

When all that was done, Derkin gathered his new army in the compound. "We'll rest here a few days," he told them. "You'll eat well, tend your wounds, and clean yourselves. Those fit to work can set up a forge and start making weapons. We'll need hammers, axes, swords, pikes… anything any of you know how to use. And I am going to drill you in orderly combat. I-"

A hand went up, and a dwarf said, "Excuse me…"

Derkin turned to him. "Yes?"

"That all sounds fine," the miner said. "But just who the blazes are you, anyway?"

"My name is Derkin," he said. "I'm your leader."

"Who says?"

"I do," he said flatly.

Nobody dared disagree.

Behind the longhouse, the dwarven women had fires going and great tubs of water heating, and were cutting soap into small bars. They had decided that the first thing to do was to get the "soldiers" fit to be around. Dwarves, clothes, tools, and weapons all were to be thoroughly scrubbed.

When they were ready, Helta went to Derkin and handed him a piece of soap, a comb, and a pair of shears. "You, too," she said. "If you're going to be a leader, then look like one."

"I have to admit, I'm impressed," Calan Silvertoe told Derkin as they strolled across what had been-only days before- the central compound of a slave-run mine camp. All around them, dwarves in all sorts of dress and oddments of armor toiled, two by two, flailing away at each other with wooden swords, defending with shields made of everything from hardwood to stretched leather. Nearby, hammers rang on anvils, and a makeshift forge made the air above it dance with heat-shimmers. Dozens of crafters worked there, turning smelted iron into weapons. In the nearby shed, stacks of weapons of all sorts grew by the hour.

Among the combatants on the field, seeming to tower over them, Tuft Broadland stalked, shouting instructions and criticisms-mostly the latter. As Neidar dwarves, the miners-even the women-were naturally skilled with axes, hammers, slings, javelins, and spears. They had used such tools all their lives. And as miners, most of them were expert shield users. But few of them had ever held a sword, and Derkin had set the human to teach them how.

"We have no steel here," he had explained to them. "The weapons we can make readily will be rough iron. In battle, they will dull quickly, and some will break. We may have to outfit ourselves from what the enemy drops. The enemy will be mostly humans, and most humans prefer swords."

"Where are we going, Derkin?" some of them asked.

"Beyond Tharkas Pass, to Klanath," he said.

"Why?"

"To get the rest of our army."

It was answer enough for the freed slaves. They had accepted him as their leader, and in the manner of most dwarves, they were satisfied to let the leader worry about the details. So, for now, the kitchen turned out substantial meals morning and night, poultices and liniments did their work on sores and wounds, and every dwarf able to stand erect practiced swordplay and battle tactics every waking hour.

In a span of three days, Derkin converted a wretched gaggle of freed slaves into a formidable fighting force. The Chosen Ones, they called themselves. How the name originated was unclear, but every member of Derkin's little tribe seemed to have adopted it. It was a source of pride, and it gave them strength. But still, the passing of time chafed the Hylar. He was troubled and tense now as he walked with Calan Silvertoe, watching the sword drills.

For the first time in more than two years, Derkin Winter-seed felt-and looked-like the Hylar he was. Soap and hot water had sloughed away the accumulated filth of the slave pens. Good food and sunlight had brought rich color to his cheeks, and a determined shearing by Helta and Nadeen had tamed his long hair and tangled beard. Now in leather kilt and soft-weave blouse, sturdy boots, studded gauntlets and flowing cloak, and wearing a lacquered steel breastplate and a horned helmet-where the women had found such things remained a mystery, except that the armor was very old indeed-Derkin looked every inch the Hylar warrior. His dark, backswept beard was trimmed short, his hair curled at his collar, and his cloak was of heavy red cloth, fresh from a newly rebuilt loom in the longhouse. He carried a small forearm shield, and a heavy hammer was slung at his shoulder.

He had been embarrassed at the elegant attire when the women first brought it. But he discovered quickly that his "army" followed him far more happily when he wore it. It was as Helta had said: to be a leader, look like one.

Helta had surveyed the results and given him a dazzling smile. "Now you look like him," she had said.

"Like who?" he wondered. But she had only smiled again, a secretive, satisfied smile, and ignored the question.

Now old Calan Silvertoe glanced at him and frowned. "You look worried," he said. "Whaf s the matter?"

"The pit slaves, back at Klanath," he admitted. "Too much time is passing. They may all be dead or mutilated by now. If so, then this whole effort is wasted."

"They're all right," Calan assured him. "Despaxas and his pet shadow are keeping an eye on them."

"How can they be all right?" Derkin demanded. "The humans have had all these days to punish them."

"But they haven't," Calan said. "Your cell mates are holed up in their cell, with food and weapons, and no human has touched them."

"Where did they get food and weapons?"

'The elf has his ways." The old dwarf frowned. "As I understand it, he… uh… transported some things from the guards' quarters and the central larder. So they're barricaded in the pit cell, and for the time, nobody is bothering them."