Dan Parkinson: Hammer and Axe

“It’s out there somewhere,” Cale Greeneye muttered, turning slowly as he scanned the immense vistas of the Kharolis Mountains. “First Meadowfair, then the digs at Ironstone, and now here, at Windhollow. Each time, deeper into Kal-Thax. Whatever did this, it’s out there somewhere. It has to be found and destroyed.” With an angry oath he swung his shield to his back, slung his axe at his side, pushed back his cloak, and whistled shrilly. Turning toward his nephew, he said, “I’m glad you came, Damon. My regards to your mother and your father. Tell them . . . say that if this thing can be found, we will find it and destroy it.” Then he headed down from the ledge, into the little valley.

Damon Omenborn did not respond, or watch him go. The big Hylar was gazing westward, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

Cale’s Neidar company met him at the foot of the slope—sixty grim-faced dwarves, some leading their horses, some already mounted. Molt Bronzecap led his chief’s horse, Piquin, forward and handed him the reins. Many generations of fine horses separated this Piquin from the great Calnar steed Cale had ridden so long ago on the great trek of the Hylar exiles from Thoradin to Kal-Thax. This Piquin was not as tall as the great horse who was his ancestor. But he was big enough, sturdy and strong, with both the mountain-bred stamina of those tall Calnar steeds of the past and the quick, precise reflexes of the Ergothian plains horses who were also his ancestors. With treaties and trade had come cross-breeding of stock, and now both the dwarves of Kal-Thax and the humans of southern Ergoth preferred and prized these fine mounts. The knights of the human realms had come to refer to them as “war horses.”

Cale rubbed the horse’s muzzle with strong, gentle fingers and turned to face his company. “We don’t know what manner of beast murdered these people,” he said. “And we don’t know where it went. But it is within Kal-Thax now. I call for volunteers to help me find it.”

Instantly, the entire Neidar company moved forward, volunteering. Cale shook his head, looking from one to another of them. Most of them were young adventurers, all rode with him by choice, and he knew that each would happily follow him anywhere. Here jovial blue eyes glinted above the golden whiskers of a Daewar face; there serious gray eyes above the swept-back beard of Hylar heritage; and just beyond, the somber features, wide shoulders and long arms of one whose parents were Theiwar; side by side with a fierce, grinning youngster whose unruly mane and sparse beard spoke of Klar background.

One, who had stepped his mount closer than most, seemed to have no face at all—only a featureless iron ovoid with an eye-slit, hiding him from helm to chin. Crag Ironface was older than most of the company, nearer to Cale’s own age. The son of old Vog Ironface, chieftain of the Daergar of Thorbardin, Crag had been among the first of the dark-seeking Daergar to venture from that people’s mines and tunnels and seek the outside world of the Neidar.

“You, Crag,” Cale said. “The thing we seek is a thing of darkness and the mist. Maybe your eyes will see what others of us might miss.” He scanned the line. “You, Gem Coppertoe”—he pointed at a Daewar, then at a wide-shouldered Theiwar youth—“and you, Pounce Tambac. And you, Molt, and you . . .” He went on, selecting ten from among them to accompany him in the search. Then he turned to a curly-bearded former Einar and nodded. “Take charge of the rest of the company, Gran. There is still the business of those wizards. Go northeast to where the Road of Passage cuts through the Redrock Peaks. Talk to the guards there, and see what they know. If human magic-users have strayed into these lands, they are trespassing. See if you can find them and prod them on their way.”

“I hope the reports are wrong,” Gran Stonemill said. “I have no use for mages.”

“Nor does anyone else,” Cale assured him. “Just find them and ask them to leave, but take no chances. Be careful.”

“Aye,” Gran rumbled. “The less association with spellmakers, the better. But what if we find them, and they won’t leave?”

“Then get back to Thorbardin and let the Council of Thanes decide what to do about them.” Cale released the little boarding ladder on Piquin’s saddle skirt, clambered up, and resecured the ladder. “We’ll meet back at North-gate,” he told Gran. He raised his arm and swung it downward, spurring Piquin. “Volunteers! With me!”

Mace Hammerstand watched with troubled eyes as the Neidar rode away, Cale and his ten eastward, the rest northward toward the Great Road. Then he signaled his drummers to call assembly. His own company of Thorbardin guards still had work to do here, as unpleasant as it was. There were dead dwarves to be buried and honored.

Other people were on the scene now, too—groups of Einar from the next valley, coming forward to take charge of the four survivors, to care for them. It was some of these—people from the settlement of Underbluff—who had found and reported the destruction of Windhollow.

Damon Omenborn had knelt below the ledge and was scratching patterns in the sand with the point of his dagger. “Meadowfair was first,” he muttered, “then Ironstone. And now here. The path is an arc, first northward and then east. It came from the west then. Beyond Meadowfair.” He stood, straightening his light armor. His great Hylar sword swung at his side, seeming almost a toy against his powerful stature—so like the stature of his father, Willen Ironmaul, chieftain of the Hylar. “It came from the wilderness. Sheercliff and the Anviltops lie beyond Meadowfair.

“I want to backtrack to where this thing came from,” he told Mace. “There may be something to be learned there.”

“I have to return with the Guard and report,” Mace Hammerstand reminded him. “The members of the council will be waiting.”

“You don’t need me to report,” Damon said. “And I don’t need the Guard. I’m going to find where this thing originated.” He waved, and a guardsman brought up his horse, one of Willen Ironmaul’s prize herd.

“Don’t go alone,” Mace urged. “At least take a few of my guards with you.”

From the ranks, a strapping youngster with the mesh faceplate and long arms of Theiwar stock stepped forward. “I’ll go, Captain,” he told Mace.

“And I,” a gold-bearded Daewar added.

Mace looked at them, then nodded. “Very well, Tag Salan and Copper Blueboot.” He turned to Damon. “Take these two, at least,” he insisted, “though I don’t like the idea of you heading out there, Damon, even with escort.”

“I go where I please in Kal-Thax,” the big dwarf reminded the captain sternly. Horses were already being brought forward for the two escorts. Damon clapped his friend on the shoulder. “If you’re worried about what my mother will say, Mace, tell her you tried to stop me and I bounced a rock off your skull.”

Damon felt someone tugging at his cloak and turned. The Einar girl stood there, looking up at him with large grave eyes. Among the wreckage of the village she had found bits of warm clothing and other things. Now she stood before him, wrapped in furs and woolens and carrying a stained sling-pack. On her feet were sturdy boots, and in one hand she held a forester’s axe. Despite the ordeal she had been through, she was dry-eyed and calm, though in her eyes was a burning anger. “I want to go with you,” she said. “I want to find that. . . that thing’s den. I want to see where it came from, and why.”

Damon stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Your place is here,” he said softly. “We will be traveling fast and have no time for anyone who might slow us down.”

Her eyes, full of anger and scorn like clouds in a summer sky, blazed at him. They were like her name, Summercloud.