Dan Parkinson - The Swordsheath Scroll

"We'll wait until just dark, to attack," Gart decided. "I want no talking, no clattering armor, no sound at all from this point. We proceed in silence, by hand signal only. Pass the word to all units. Silent approach, then at my signal spread, form, and charge."

The lieutenant grinned and saluted, reining his mount around. 'The savages will never know what hit them," he said.

As darkness fell across the rolling plains, the members of the Third Battalion walked their mounts up a grassy swell. They paused there, spreading and wheeling into a long line, facing the peaceful camp three hundred yards away. Signals were relayed from the center by platoon officers, and each soldier carefully removed the mufflings and strappings from his armor and the armor of his horse. Such muffling was necessary for a silent approach by an armored unit, but would only get in the way in a charge.

With shields and lances at the ready, the line of horsemen waited, squinting, peering at the little camp. It looked as though no alarm had been given. The fires were burning low, and a few recumbent figures sprawled near some of the fires or sat in the entrances of the three or four little shelters that were visible in the firelight. No sentries were visible, and no one seemed to be doing anything beyond just sitting around, enjoying the evening breeze.

"Poor, ignorant savages," Commander Gart muttered, raising his arm. "This won't take any effort at all." All along the line, lieutenants raised their arms, ready to relay his signal.

"And to think we get paid for this," a soldier whispered somewhere.

The evening had darkened, and the time was as good as any. With a sigh of anticipation, Tulien Gart brought his arm down and forward, and put spurs to his startled mount. The big horse gathered its haunches and surged forward in a fast trot that became a belly-down run. To the right and left, the entire line moved in unison with the commander, and the quiet of evening erupted into a thunder of hooves and a rattling of mail.

In nine seconds, the thundering line had gone a hundred yards. In seven more seconds it covered the second hundred, and six seconds later it smashed into the little camp, a wide, sweeping juggernaut of armored men and armored horses, bristling with leveled lances. Fires were scattered by flailing hooves and smothered by rising clouds of dust. Tents and lean-tos collapsed and were trampled into the soil. Lances pierced the reclining figures, vaguely seen in the turmoil, and voices were raised in surprise. "What is this, anyway?" a soldier shouted. "This isn't a man! It's nothing but a straw dummy!" "Same over here!" another responded. "Where are they?"

"Dismount and search!" Tulien Gart ordered. "Find them! Find their tracks!"

"They can't have gone very far," a lieutenant noted. "These fires have been tended within the past hour."

For a time, the entire Third Battalion was afoot, torches held high and swords in gauntleted hands, searching.

Tulien Gart stood in the center of the ruined dummy camp, shouting commands as the search widened, then widened again. But when an hour passed with nothing found, he sighed and called them all back in. "We'll camp here tonight," he decided. "It's too dark to move. In the morning, we'll find their trail."

The battalion was just building its fires when an ashen-faced brace of lieutenants hurried up to Tulien Gart and saluted. "We're missing some horses, sir," one of them said.

"And we know where the savages have gone," the other added.

Gart stared at them. "Missing… horses? How many horses, and what became of them?"

"About twenty, it looks like." A lieutenant shrugged. "We're still counting."

"Why are we missing twenty horses?" Gart snapped.

"They were stolen, sir," a lieutenant said, scuffling his steel-shod feet. "While we were searching around the camp, it looks as though some of the plainsmen just walked in and led them away. There was a lot of confusion and…"

"Gods!" Gart stormed. "I'll want the name of every horse handler on duty during that search." He cursed for several seconds, a stream of carefully chosen invectives that was an education to some of his younger personnel. Then he turned again to the pair of lieutenants. "You said you know where the savages are?"

"Yes, sir," one of them replied.

"Well, where?"

The soldier turned and pointed eastward. "Over there, sir," he said.

Gart looked, and began swearing again. There, out on the prairie, were the lights of fresh fires, a night camp being prepared. In the prairie distance, the little camp might have been only a mile or so away. Or it might have been fifteen or twenty miles.

"Well, that was entertaining," Tuft Broadland said to Despaxas as they sipped hot ale beside a fresh fire. "And we picked up twenty-three horses in the bargain."

"Will they follow?" the elf asked.

"Of course they will. They can see us as well as we can see them, and those Ergothians have no eye for distance. They'll wait for morning, then they'll come clanking and crashing after us. I think tomorrow it might be nice if a few of them happen to fall into a pit or something, just to keep them interested. And maybe we'll put a few more of them afoot. Gods, it must be uncomfortable, walking in cavalry armor, carrying those horseback shields and heavy lances! But of course they won't discard as much as a gauntlet or brace. That would be disgraceful!" He grinned wolfishly.

"Can your people take it from here?" the elf asked. "I mean, without your presence, can your warriors keep those soldiers occupied for a week or so?"

"Of course," Tuft assured him. "One thing about empire troops, you can count on them. In a close chase, it will be several days before they'll admit to themselves that they're being dawdled. And by that time, they'll be at least a week's travel from where they came from. But why do you ask?"

"I promised you a chance to observe Derkin's army," Despaxas said. "If you'd like, we can go now."

"To Tharkas?" Tuft inquired. "Yes, I'd like to see what that sourpuss dwarf is up to. We can be there in a couple of days."

"No, I said 'now,' " the elf corrected. "Zephyr is close by. In his own plane, he is a great wizard. As a verger, he can lift us from one place to another in a. moment by wrapping us in his wings."

"Absolutely not!" the Cobar snapped. "I'll be hanged if I'll let myself be wrapped in fish wings."

"Then I'll transport us myself." Despaxas shrugged. "Transport is a simple enough spell."

The man glared at him across the fire. "I know about your transport spells," he reminded the elf. "They make people dizzy."

"It only lasts a moment," Despaxas said.

"I'm not going anywhere without a horse under me!" the Cobar growled. "Being afoot is for Sackmen and Ergothians."

Despaxas smiled-an innocent, disarming smile. "Then get your horse," he said.

In the span of a single day, the floor of Tharkas Pass had become a beehive of activity. Thousands of bustling, busy dwarves worked in the shadows of the great, precipitous walls of the pass, barely four miles from Lord Kane's stronghold at Klanath.

At the place where a dwarf named Cale Greeneye had driven a metal spike centuries earlier, marking the boundary of the dwarven land of Kal-Thax, the Chosen Ones worked at building a massive stone wall. By the hundreds, dwarven workmen disassembled the stone walls three miles south at Tharkas Camp, while hundreds of others loaded the great stones onto stone-boats. With teams of oxen, bison, and even a few elk, dwarven teamsters hauled the stones into Tharkas Pass.

Within the pass, at the site Derkin Hammerhand had selected, stonemasons recut, sized, and drilled the great blocks of solid rock, hoisted them with winches and slings, and set them in place while hundreds more scurried about, fitting each joint with "pegs" of iron bar to secure them. Every stone weighed at least a thousand pounds, and some weighed a ton. With blocks of such size, human builders would have settled for mortared joints and relied on the weight of the materials to make the wall secure. But these were not humans. These were dwarves, and they held to the dwarven philosophy of construction: if you can't build it right, don't build it at all.