Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

Behind the ragged refugees stretched the rugged ridges leading into the High Kharolis. Snow dusted all the slopes, and the loftiest peaks were buried beneath ten-foot drifts of soft powder. Plumes of wind-blown crystals trailed from these summits, proof that winter’s winds would soon scour the valleys and chill the life out of anyone who hadn’t planned ahead for winter.

“Let’s quit wastin’ time,” growled the third dwarf, speaking for the first time. “I say we move on the bridge before the hill dwarves even know we’re here. If they try to stop us. .” He didn’t finish the statement, but his hand, tightening around the haft of his great war axe, made clear his meaning.

“Wait, Barzack,” Tarn cautioned. “Let’s make a plan and stick to it. There’s got to be a way to get across that bridge without people getting killed.”

“Bah-they’re hill dwarves! Who gives a whit if we have to cut a few of them to pieces?”

“You’re forgetting-we might have to live nearby to this place for the whole winter. It’ll be hard enough just finding food and making shelter without having to worry whether we’re going to be attacked by a bunch of villagers intending to seek vengeance for a surprise ambush.”

“Not to mention,” Belicia added pointedly, “we don’t know. Maybe they’re peaceful folk.”

Barzack snorted. Like Tarn, he was a shaggy fellow, with long hair and a bushy beard. Despite months of living off the land, his dark armor was clean and polished and rust free. His boots and tunic showed signs of wear, but his helmet fit tightly over his scalp. While Tarn and Belicia had demonstrated patience and leadership in keeping the mountain dwarves together during the months of exile, Barzack had proven capable and useful as a tracker, a hunter, and a fighter of admirable courage and skills. All the tribe had honored him when he had single-handedly slain a great cave bear. Using only his axe he not only destroyed a threat to dwarven lives, but he furnished enough meat for a grand feast and procured a pelt that had yielded a dozen warm cloaks.

“The hill dwarves can’t seek vengeance if they’re all dead,” he pointed out with cold logic.

Tarn shook his head. “We’re not looking for another war. Besides, considering the state of the world, I’d be surprised if that village is really as sleepy as it looks. Maybe they aren’t pushovers.”

The other male glowered. “Let ‘em try and fight us-I tell you, we could use a little action.”

“What about our elders and the children?” Belicia retorted with a gesture at the listless mob of Hylar. “Don’t you think they’d appreciate having their warriors around for the winter?” She turned to Tarn. “Let me go down and talk to them, see if there’s going to be any trouble.”

“I think we should all go. That way they’ll know that we mean business,” Tarn said. “We should be ready to make a move if they prove balky.”

“No reason to get them all alarmed,” Belicia countered.

“If they see two thousand mountain dwarves waiting to cross their bridge, they’ll prefer to talk-and they’ll think twice before trying to stop us.”

Although he grimaced in disgust, Barzack nodded his reluctant agreement. “It’s bad enough living outside, having the sun beat down on us for a hot summer. Now we’ve got to kiss up to a bunch of hill dwarves, just to hope they’ll let us cross the bridge and pass through their little town.”

“Maybe you’d rather go back to Thorbardin?” demanded Tarn, his temper flaring.

For a moment all three were silent, overcome by grim memories. The Hylar had once been the proudest of dwar-ven clans, unchallenged rulers of mighty Thorbardin. They had been driven from their ancestral home during the past summer, victims of the treachery of dark dwarves. As if the traitorous attack of their neighboring clans wasn’t enough, they had suffered an influx of demon creatures from Chaos that had wracked their home with unprecedented violence. Now these refugees were the only survivors of Clan Hylar. Their city was a ruin. No family had been left unscathed by the devastation-in fact each of the three leaders debating what to do on the bridge had lost a father in the brutal battles against dark dwarves and Chaos beasts. Tarn couldn’t help feeling a twinge of shame as he thought how far his people had fallen. He knew there were worse dangers that loomed ahead, and he wondered if he was capable of coping with the obstacles.

“One day we will go back,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to his two companions. “That’s a promise. . to you, to all of us.”

“For now, let’s see if we can get across that bridge,” Belicia said, bringing their attention back to the present.

“Barz?” asked Tarn, looking back to the multitude of mountain dwarves resting on either side of the road.

“I’ll bring ‘em up,” the burly warrior muttered. “We’ll be ready to rush the bridge if they show any signs of stupidity.”

“Wait until I give the word,” Tarn said. He was grateful for Barzack’s competence, a useful attribute in this increasingly problematic world, but frequently found his bellicose nature a challenge to reasonable authority.

The black-bearded warrior shouted at the main body, and the mountain dwarves once again fell into line. The sturdiest warriors took the front positions, though a large detachment of armed Hylar brought up the rear of the band to guard against surprise. Tarn and Belicia led the large column across the crest of the ridge and down the road toward the village. They saw immediately that the sleepy appearance of the hill dwarf community was deceptive. In plain view a troop of armed warriors appeared from a squat building and marched forth to straddle the bridge.

“Do you think they knew we were here all along?” asked Belicia.

“Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if they keep a company on permanent guard duty.”

The dwarfwoman nodded. Both of them knew that though the Storms of Chaos had been beaten back before they could consume Thorbardin, strange beings still lurked across this and every other part of Krynn. No doubt the hill dwarves had experienced some of the Chaos horrors-dragons of liquid fire, shadow wights that sucked vitality, life, even memory from their doomed victims, daemon warriors who feared nothing.

Of course, the schism between the dwarf clans existed long before the Chaos War. Still, it saddened Tarn to see that the rivalries and resentments that had marred the history of the hill and mountain dwarves had not been allayed by the arrival of a greater, supernatural threat. The residents of this little village couldn’t have looked more hostile than they did now, facing fellow dwarves. To judge from the first words spoken when Tarn and Belicia had advanced to within hailing distance, an all-out battle was likely.

“That’s far enough, cousins. . these arrows have sharp heads, and no one’s ever complained about our aim!”

The speaker was a brawny hill dwarf, a fellow who looked to be nearly a head taller than Tarn. He carried a massive, heavy warhammer, and was flanked by a row of doughty comrades, each of whom held a heavy crossbow raised and pointed. Even from a hundred paces away, the mountain dwarves could see the sunlight reflecting off arrowheads.

“We want to talk to you,” said Belicia, holding up both of her hands, palms outward. Tarn remained silent, and made no move to draw his sword.

“Talk from over there, then,” growled the original speaker.

“We come from Thorbardin,” Tarn said. “We are of Clan Hylar, and we left our ancestral home, driven out by evil Chaos fiends.”

“We know-and for all we care, you can go back there! Maybe a fire dragon will keep you warm this winter!”