Dan Parkinson - The Swordsheath Scroll

"You were saying?" Dunbarth reminded.

"Oh, yes." The Daewar turned again to the low wall. "I think we should send traders to meet them tomorrow. If they have goods to trade, why not welcome them?"

"But the rest of it? That demand for a meeting with the council?"

"Oh, we won't do that, of course," Jeron said. "And we certainly won't let any of them inside Thorbardin. Not until we know a good deal more about them at any rate."

"Then after the traders go out tomorrow, we'll close the gate and keep it closed," Dunbarth concluded.

They gave orders to the guards nearby, then walked back through Northgate, through the gatehouse with its huge screw and driving mechanisms, through the old delves of Gatekeep and out along the catwalk that led from one end of Anvil's Echo to the other. All around them, alert eyes watched from murder holes, but they had no concern. The eyes were those of Dunbarth's elite home guard. Across Anvil's Echo and a few steps into the great tunnel that was the northern road to the central cities of Thorbardin, Dunbarth Ironthumb stopped suddenly and turned. A dozen yards back, his guard company halted, weapons at the ready.

For a moment, the Hylar leader looked around, then resumed his walk, striding alongside Jeron Redleather,

"What's the matter?" the Daewar asked. "Why did you stop just then?"

"I don't know," Dunbarth said. "I had the feeling, for just a moment, that someone was following us. It seemed as though there was somebody walking right behind us."

At break of dawn, thc fresh west wind whispering in the valleys and up the slopes of Cloudseeker had a smell of spring about it. Northgate of Thorbardin had been closed through the night, but now its great screw turned again and the huge, steel-clad stone plug that was the gate receded slowly into the gatehouse, letting the breeze and the morning light enter. Guards stepped out through the great portal, took up positions on the ledge and the ramps, and gazed curiously out across the valley below.

Cookfire smoke rose above the big encampment there, and there was movement everywhere as the strangers from the west had their breakfasts, tended their livestock, and began taking down their travel tents. They were preparing for a march, and the dwarves above, at North-gate, watched curiously as the pace of activity increased its tempo.

From such a distance, the tiny figures by the stream seemed to all be moving in unison, going about their various morning chores, but with a visible rhythm, as though there were music there, and they were all listening to it.

Then the wind shifted a bit, wafting up the slope, and the guards on the ledge heard it, too. The faint sound was that of a single drum, beating softly and steadily, a deep, throbbing rhythm that seemed to touch the dwarven soul. In fascination, the guards on the mountain watched and listened, then snapped to quick attention as a platoon of the elite guard stepped through the open gate into the dawn light.

The new arrivals spread out, looking up the slope above Northgate, down the slope below the wall, and down both climbing ramps. When their surveillance was complete, they spread apart and saluted. Jeron Redleather stepped out into the morning, followed by Dunbarth Ironthumb and old Swing Basto, chieftain of the Theiwar.

Like the guards, the three leaders gazed curiously out across the westward valley, where the strangers were packing their animals and rolling their tents. The smoke that had floated above the encampment was gone, the cookfires extinguished. Obviously, the strangers were ready to move out.

"Is there any sign yet of their leader?" Jeron asked one of the guards, who held a seeing-tube.

"Haven't seen him," the dwarf answered. "At least we haven't seen that red cloak and bright armor. Maybe he changed his clothes."

"If he did, he could be anywhere over there, and we wouldn't spot him," another guard said. "Nobody has had a good look at him yet."

Dunbarth Ironthumb had wandered to the wall, and stood there now, listening intently. "That drum," he muttered. "There is something about that drum…"

"What is it?" Jeron asked. "Is the drum talking?"

"No, it's just singing. But there is something about that rhythm. It's like something I should remember, something I should understand. But I'm sure I've never heard it before."

"Maybe your ancestors heard something like it," Jeron suggested. "You Hylar have always been drum people."

"Yes, possibly," the Hylar agreed. Still, though, he listened, feeling as if the faint, haunting beat were talking to him personally. Among the guards, some of the other Hylar had similar expressions of puzzlement.

Even without the seeing-tubes, they could see the people out in the valley scurrying into formation, bright cloaks swirling, bright armor flashing as they made ready to cross the stream. The long line of carts and pack animals was brought forward, and on the flanks, dwarves in bright costume climbed aboard their saddled mounts and wheeled into position. The red-and-gray company assembled, mounted, and rode across the stream, bright water splashing under the hooves of their horses. There was, though, no sign of the red-cloaked figure who had led them when they were first seen.

When they were across, all the rest began to move, crossing rank by rank and group by group to take up their march positions. It looked as though a whole city were on the march.

"There certainly are a lot of them," Jeron noted as the strangers spread and advanced, heading toward Thorbar-din. 'Thousands of them."

"My guards estimate at least nine thousand," Dunbarth told him. "Maybe more than that. I can't imagine where they came from. I don't recall there being anything west of here larger than an occasional Neidar village. But by Reorx, there are as many people down there as there are in all of Hybardin."

"Speaking of Hybardin," Jeron said, "do you know whether any of your people might have been prowling my shore last night? The guards didn't see anyone, but there was a Hylar boat at the dock this morning, and nobody around to account for it."

"You, too?" Swing Basto asked. "I've had a dozen reports of prowlers wandering around Theibardin during the night. And one of my water-pipers swears he turned around and saw the face of Harl Thrustweight looking at him."

"Too much ale." Jeron grinned. "Or too much imagination. Harl Thrustweight, you say?"

"No, not Harl Thrustweight. Just his face. There wasn't any body attached to it."

"Definitely ale," Jeron repeated. "Ale, and possibly a troubled conscience. That would account for seeing ghosts."

"That water-piper had nothing to do with the Hylar chief's accident," the old Theiwar blustered. "And even if anybody in my thane did, they're all long gone now."

"Hush!" Dunbarth raised a commanding hand. "Listen!"

Out in the valley, the entire caravan of strangers was now across the little stream and approaching at a stately, steady pace. The soft drum still throbbed its haunting rhythm, but it was louder now, as though mufflings had been removed. And another drum had joined its voice, adding a stirring counterpoint to the beat. As they listened, another drum joined in, and another, each adding a new tone and dimension to the growing sound.

"What is that?" Jeron rasped. "Are they saying something? Is it a signal?"

Before Dunbarth could answer, a gray-haired old Hylar hurried onto the ledge, glanced about, then pulled a sheet of rough paper and a graphite stick from his robe. Those around him were a bit surprised to see old Chane Lowen out and about at such an early hour, though as lore-keeper of Thorbardin, he generally came and went as he pleased. Listening intently, the old dwarf began making quick, strange marks on his paper, in time with the drumbeats. Jeron Redleather glanced over the newcomer's shoulder and scowled. He had never been able to decipher either the signals that the Hylar vibrars sent, or the odd, curled runes by which they were recorded.