Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

“Please listen,” Belicia said. “We are not looking for a fight. . or even your help. All we ask is that our band be allowed to cross this bridge and pass through your village, that we may have a chance to reach safety of the lowlands before the onset of winter.”

“We know all we need to know about mountain dwarves. . maybe you recall the stories yourself? How once upon a time the world was coming to an end, and the Cataclysm was raining death across Krynn? We hill dwarves turned to the undermountain clans for protection. Do you remember what the mountain dwarf king said?”

“I remember,” Tarn said, “and it is a memory that brings us shame.”

“Well, we remember too,” declared the hill dwarf, “and to us it’s a memory that brings only hatred and bitterness. There was no room for us, your king said. . go back to the hills and die, he said. Ironic, isn’t it, when you think about what yer asking. Now that we have a chance to return the favor, you’ll understand that we plan to make the most of it!”

“You speak of a time of evil and selfishness,” retorted Tarn. “Those traits led to war back then-the Dwarfgate War, the greatest tragedy of our history.”

“Think about the past, and have a new vision for the future!” Belicia argued. “Your actions today can lay the groundwork for lasting peace.”

“We’ve had all we want of mountain dwarf peace! Now, go back to the high country or face our steel!” The speaker brandished his great hammer, while the ranks of crossbowmen aimed their weapons meaningfully.

Other hill dwarves lined the edge of the gorge. All were armed and-unlike the Hylar-they looked healthy, clean, well-fed. Though they were no match for the sheer numbers of the refugees, they had the advantage of defending a bridge, a narrow route that would inevitably negate the greater force of the Hylar.

“We can’t go back to the heights!” Tarn declared, feeling his temper rising again. “If you don’t let us pass in peace, then we’ll have to try to do so by force-we have no choice! That will lead to a waste of lives that benefits neither of our tribes. For you should know this, hill dwarf-though some of my clan may die, your people’s blood, too, will flow across the ground. Cousins will kill cousins, and many dwarves will perish!”

“I say let the killing begin!” sneered the village chieftain. “My father and grandfather and all my ancestors have told me of mountain dwarf treachery, of the hate that kept my people from safety during the Cataclysm. You are no kin of ours!”

Tarn felt his sword hand twitching as he started to reply. Before he could growl out a word, however, he felt Belicia’s hand on his arm. As always, her touch calmed him.

“It’s no good,” muttered Tarn, glaring at the belligerent warrior on the bridge. “ ‘Stubborn as a hill dwarf.’ I see that it’s an apt phrase!”

Barzack stalked forward. “Let’s fight them!” insisted the veteran warrior. He fixed his dark eyes on Tarn and set his jaw belligerently. “Let me lead the way if you don’t have the stomach for it!”

“That’s enough of that kind of talk,” snapped Tarn, still in a foul temper, “or you’ll be fighting me, not some upstart hill dwarf.”

“Stop it, both of you,” snapped Belicia.

“What are we going to do about this impasse, then?” demanded Barzack.

“I guess you’re right,” Tarn said after a long silence. “We’ll have to fight.”

“Go to war against our own cousins?” Belicia asked glumly.

“Do you have a better idea?” asked Tarn in exasperation.

“I might,” Barzack offered. He studied the picket line at the bridge. “That big hill dwarf, the one making most of the noise-like he was spoiling for a fight, right?”

“Aye,” Tarn agreed, wondering what the mountain dwarf was getting at.

“Well, so am I! Let’s suggest a match-myself against him. If I win, we get to cross the bridge and move swiftly through the village and into the low valleys. If he wins, we go back-or, rather, you will, since I’ll be dead. We’ll pledge against the honor of Reorx, so there will be no duplicity on either side.”

“I don’t know,” the Hylar leader said slowly. He looked at the strapping warrior appraisingly, remembered Barzack’s prowess against the massive bear. “If I were a bettor, I’d admit I like your chances, but we-especially you-would be gambling with very high stakes.”

“I’ll win,” Barzack said confidently.

“How can you be so sure?”

“This is why.” The burly warrior reached into the tangle of the beard at his breast. He groped for a moment, then brought forth a glittering object dangling from a golden chain. Tarn saw a necklace, three gold disks linked on a single chain of gold. One of the disks was centered with a ruby, another with an emerald, and the third with a bright diamond.

“This is all that I have left to remind me of my mother,” said Barzack. “She gave it to me before she left Thorbardin with my father. . I was a wee mite, for this was long years before the Lance War. She said I should always carry her prized necklace, for I was her first son.”

Tarn was surprised to see moisture in the warrior’s eyes, to hear emotion choke the dwarf’s voice.

“I never saw her again.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” asked Belicia.

“Yes, my father told me.” Barzack drew a deep breath, and once again his eyes were dry, his voice hard. “She was taken by hill dwarves. . captured, enslaved, probably worked to death or killed outright.”

Barzack glared at Tarn, as if challenging him to make an issue of the story. “That’s why I’ll win-in my mind, these hill dwarves are the same as those who took my mother. My hatred of them will carry me to victory. I assure you, this fight will give me a great deal of satisfaction.”

“Still, it’s taking a huge chance.”

“The alternative is war,” Belicia pointed out.

“I know.” Tarn gestured to the vast band of mountain dwarves gathered on the road before the bridge. “If it comes to battle, though, I know we could win. We easily outnumber them.”

“However, it is as you say. Too many Hylar would die. How many would die before we prevailed?” his mate persisted. “I think Barzack’s idea has real merit.”

“Let me fight him-for my mother, my father, for all of us. For Reorx himself!”

Tarn still didn’t like it. He knew that Reorx was the god of all dwarves, clans of mountain and hill alike, and there was no guarantee that he would favor the Hylar cause.

“Do you have a better idea? Any idea at all?” growled Barzack. Tarn was forced to admit that he didn’t.

So it was decided. Tarn, Belicia, and Barzack turned and approached the edge of the bridge, with the rest of the clan pressing close behind. The hill dwarf sentries still stood in line, blocking passage across the bridge, and with the approach of the whole column of mountain dwarves more of the town’s residents had spilled out of their homes to gather at the far end of the gorge. The defenders of the village shouted and jeered at the refugees, hurling the crudest insults they could imagine.

In contrast, the mass of mountain dwarves regarded the hill dwarves with grim silence, glowering darkly, fingering weapons, occasionally muttering among themselves in reaction to the harsh invective. Tarn knew that their silence was not an indication of cowardice-if anything, it was an advertisement of their stern purpose. To the Hylar, the bridge represented a route not only to the lowlands but to their chances of any future at all.

“Go back-or I warn you, we’ll kill you!” blustered the hill dwarf leader. Now, to Tarn’s critical eye, this sturdy hill dwarf looked every bit the equal of Barzack in size, weight, and even in the burning anger that shone within his dark black eyes. Tarn hated the prospect of a duel, but he was determined to cross the bridge, and this seemed the only way.