Dan Parkinson - The Swordsheath Scroll

"Well, well, well," Luster Redleather declared with open admiration, staring at the girl who was still glaring at Hammerhand. "And who have we here?"

"Her name is Helta Graywood," Hammerhand growled. "Among other things, she is a nuisance."

Tearing his fascinated eyes from the girl, Luster peered at the red-cloak's dangling hand. It seemed to contain nothing, but some of the fingers had disappeared. "Magic!" the Daewar muttered. "What is it? A cloak of some kind?"

"An elf made it," Calan Silvertoe admitted.

"I see," Luster said, his blue eyes alight. "Ah, yes. That accounts for the rumors from the other night. We were reconnoitered, it seems. And by Hammerhand himself."

"I've been away from Thorbardin for years," Hammerhand replied. "I decided to have a look around, privately."

"You've been away-" Luster started, then grinned and planted his fists on his hips. "My father is right, then. You are Derkin Winterseed!"

"I was," Hammerhand admitted. "But my people gave me a new name."

"Derkin Hammerhand," Luster said. "If s a good name. But why all the mystery? As Harl Thrustweight's son, you could just have walked in openly. You're a citizen."

"I don't care to be a citizen of Thorbardin," Derkin rasped.

"Why not?"

"That's what I will speak to the council about. If we can proceed to the council hall without further interruption."

"The dead Theiwar is one of the local troublemakers," one of the Home Guards reported. "If she hadn't brained him, someone else would have, sooner or later."

"Then there are no claims or challenges?" Luster asked.

The guard shook his head. "None stated."

"In that case, lef s get going." Luster swept his arm in a courtly gesture, bowing slightly to Helta Graywood. "The rest of the walk will be far more pleasant, with such attractive-such visibly attractive-company."

A bright smile lit the girl's face. "Thank you," she said, curtsying. Then the smile was replaced by a frown as Derkiii Hammerhand strode away.

The Great hall of Audience of Thorbardin, located in the southern reaches of the fortress complex, was packed to capacity when Derkin Hammerhand arrived there. Word had spread quickly of the impending meeting of the Council of Thanes-a meeting demanded by the strangers from the wilderness-and it looked as though half the dwarves in Thorbardin had decided to attend. Tens of thousands of people packed the rising tiers of cut stone seats that ringed the big, circular cavern, and it sounded as though they were all talking at once. The echoes of their voices could be heard a quarter-mile away in the wide concourse of the Ninth Road tunnel.

But when Luster Redleather and his Home Guards escorted their charges into the great chamber, the place went almost silent.

Only a few in Thorbardin had actually gone to North-gate to see the army of strangers now camped in the meadows beyond, but everybody had heard about them- about the music of their drums, the goods they brought to trade, and about the mysterious leader of the outsiders who resembled an ancient Hylar chieftain and wore the armor of a long-ago time. Speculation was rampant as to whether the strangers beyond Northgate were here just to trade, or also to invade.

Now the one called Hammerhand was here, in Thorbardin, and most of the dwarves in the undermountain realm waited curiously to hear what he had to say.

Runners had preceded them into the Great Hall, and Derkin Hammerhand assumed that those waiting-at least the thane leaders and officials gathered on the raised dais in the center of the cavern-now knew everything that Luster Redleather knew about him, including his full name. The suspicion was confirmed by whispers that reached his ears as he led his group down a sloping aisle, between packed rows of waiting dwarves. "Derkin," someone whispered. "He is Derkin, the son of Harl Thrustweight."

Followed by Helta Graywood and Calan Silvertoe, and flanked by the Ten, Derkin strode to the dais and stepped up on it, then scanned the crowd waiting there with thoughtful eyes. Vaguely, he recalled Dunbarth Iron-thumb of the Hylar, who had once been Captain of Guards under old Harl. The rest he had never seen, but he knew who they were. The shrewd-eyed, middle-aged Daewar with the trade wardens behind him obviously was Jeron Redleather. The suspicious-looking old Theiwar scowling at him from his council seat would be Swing Basto. Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar removed his face mask as a courtesy, letting the stranger see his features, then donned it again, squinting in the light of the chamber's overhead sun-tunnel and reflectors.

The bushy, unruly hair and beard of the next chief identified him as Klar, the chieftain Trom Thule. The sixth and seventh seats were vacant. Nobody knew where to find the bumbling little Grimble I, Highbulp of Thane Aghar, and many years had passed since any Neidar had met with the council.

Derkin studied them one by one, then nodded and stepped to the center of the dais. "I am called Hammer-hand," he told them. "My people call themselves the Chosen Ones."

Jeron Redleather bowed slightly, welcoming the newcomer, then glanced at those with him. He had already heard-from his son's guards-of the beauty of the dwarf girl with Hammerhand, but his eyes widened when he looked at the old one-arm with the reed basket. "I know you," he said. "You are Calan. You left Thorbardin long ago, some said to live among elves."

"Your memory is excellent, Sire." Calan Silvertoe grinned. "That was at least eighty years ago."

"And now you return, with another who preferred outside ways to our own." Jeron shifted his gaze back to the red-cloaked warrior. "My son tells me that you are indeed Derkin Winterseed, the son of a Hylar chieftain."

"I am called Derkin Hammerhand now," Derkin said. "The name pleases me. My people chose it."

"And who are your people?" Dunbarth Ironthumb asked. "Where do they come from?"

"They call themselves the Chosen Ones," Derkin repeated.

Frowning, Swing Basto rumbled, "Chosen ones? Who chose them?"

"I did," Derkin said. "And as to where we are from, we are from Kal-Thax."

"Kal-Thax is here," the Klar chieftain pointed out. "Kal-Thax is our land."

"It used to be," Derkin said. "Until Thorbardin abandoned it. Most of my people have been Neidar. Many of them come now from the same cells and slave pens as I come from-slave quarters owned by the human invaders that you people have not troubled yourselves to drive away."

Angry voices were raised in the vast audience, and others joined them. The babble became a roar that died slowly as Jeron Redleather raised a commanding hand. All over the great chamber, companies of Home Guards spread and positioned themselves, ready to enforce order if necessary.

"This person is our guest!" the Daewar chieftain announced, his voice carrying through the Great Hall. "As he is our guest at this assembly of the thanes, it is our right to question him, but it is also his right to speak freely and be heard."

"So question him!" a voice called from somewhere in the crowd. "Why is he here? What does he want?"

"Those are fair questions," Jeron conceded, nodding at Derkin.

"We are here for two reasons," Derkin continued. 'The first is to trade. Your traders," he indicated the trade wardens standing behind Jeron, "have inspected our goods and heard what we want in exchange."

"Mostly steel implements," Jeron said.

"Implements?" Derkin raised an eyebrow, his eyes piercing the Daewar chieftain. "Call them what they are. We want weapons. Good weapons crafted from good dwarven steel."

"Weapons, then," Jeron conceded.

"Provided you have the steel to make them," Derkin added. "I saw no smelter glows at the Shaft of Reorx."