dwarves, they were satisfied to let the leader worry about the details. So, for now, the kitchen turned out substantial meals morning and night, poultices and liniments did their work on sores and wounds, and every dwarf able to stand erect practiced swordplay and battle tactics every waking hour.
In a span of three days, Derkin converted a wretched gaggle of freed slaves into a formidable fighting force. The Chosen Ones, they called themselves. How the name originated was unclear, but every member of Derkin's little tribe seemed to have adopted it. It was a source of pride, and it gave them strength. But still, the passing of time chafed the Hylar. He was troubled and tense now as he walked with Calan Silvertoe, watching the sword drills.
For the first time in more than two years, Derkin Winter-seed felt-and looked-like the Hylar he was. Soap and hot water had sloughed away the accumulated filth of the slave pens. Good food and sunlight had brought rich color to his cheeks, and a determined shearing by Helta and Nadeen had tamed his long hair and tangled beard. Now in leather kilt and soft-weave blouse, sturdy boots, studded gauntlets and flowing cloak, and wearing a lacquered steel breastplate and a horned helmet-where the women had found such things remained a mystery, except that the armor was very old indeed-Derkin looked every inch the Hylar warrior. His dark, backswept beard was trimmed short, his hair curled at his collar, and his cloak was of heavy red cloth, fresh from a newly rebuilt loom in the longhouse. He carried a small forearm shield, and a heavy hammer was slung at his shoulder.
He had been embarrassed at the elegant attire when the women first brought it. But he discovered quickly that his 'army' followed him far more happily when he wore it. It was as Helta had said: to be a leader, look like one.
Helta had surveyed the results and given him a dazzling smile. 'Now you look like him,' she had said.
'Like who?' he wondered. But she had only smiled again, a secretive, satisfied smile, and ignored the question.
Now old Calan Silvertoe glanced at him and frowned. 'You look worried,' he said. 'Whaf s the matter?'
'The pit slaves, back at Klanath,' he admitted. 'Too much time is passing. They may all be dead or mutilated by now. If so, then this whole effort is wasted.'
'They're all right,' Calan assured him. 'Despaxas and his pet shadow are keeping an eye on them.'
'How can they be all right?' Derkin demanded. 'The humans have had all these days to punish them.'
'But they haven't,' Calan said. 'Your cell mates are holed up in their cell, with food and weapons, and no human has touched them.'
'Where did they get food and weapons?'
'The elf has his ways.' The old dwarf frowned. 'As I understand it, he… uh…
'Why not?'
The old Daewar grinned wolfishly. 'Do you remember the pit boss, a man called Shalit Mileen?'
'I remember him,' Derkin growled. 'He ordered the beatings I took… and the heavy chain.'
'Well, it seems Shalit Mileen is keeping it a secret that his slaves have revolted. He was plotting against the Master of Mines, and Renus Sabad will blame him for everything. Now Shalit Mileen is plotting to try to keep his head, thanks to you. And to me, of course, and Des-paxas.'
'How does Despaxas know what's going on in the pit?'
'Don't ask me.' Calan shrugged. 'I don't understand his magics.'
'But you trust him,' Derkin said, stepping in front of the old dwarf to look into his eyes.
'As much as I've ever trusted anybody,' Calan assured him. 'He says I saved his life once, and I suppose that's true. It was a long time ago, when I was still a trader out of Thorbardin, and before Despaxas learned his spells. A wild ogre had him cornered, without his weapons, and I happened along. I killed the ogre, but not before it bit off my arm.'
'But how do you know an elf can be trusted?'
'He could have left me there to die,' Calan said. 'But he didn't. He nursed me back to health.' The old dwarf squinted, then turned and pointed across the training field. 'How do you know you can trust that human?'
'I believe his interests are the same as mine,' Derkin said.
'And so are the elf's.'
'I don't like magicians.'
'Nobody likes magicians,' Calan agreed. 'But you'll have to admit, a decent one can be useful now and then.'
Directly behind Calan, the air shimmered, and suddenly Despaxas stood there, his smooth cheeks drawn in an ironic smile. 'Thank you,' he purred.
Calan spun around, almost tripping on his own feet. 'I wish you'd stop doing that!' he snapped.
'Sorry,' the elf said. 'But I have disturbing news. Lord Kane has arrived at Klanath to prepare for the inspections. He has ordered a brigade through the pass to fortify this compound. He intends to open all the shafts over here and build a citadel. With a presence at both ends of Tharkas Pass, Lord Kane can claim all the lands from here to Thorbardin's north gate.'
'Like blazes he can!' Derkin hissed. 'This is dwarven land.'
'A brigade!' Calan frowned. 'When are the soldiers coming?'
'They are on the march now,' Despaxas said. 'Both cavalry and foot. By nightfall, they will be in the pass.'
Tuft Broadland had arrived in time to hear the report. He swore, shook his head, and glared at the elf, then sighed. 'Then you've lost before you begin,' he told Derkin sadly. 'We'll never get to Klanath now.'
'We'll get there,' Derkin growled. His cloak swirling, he turned and beckoned. Instantly, the burly dwarves who made up his personal guard, the Ten, hurried to him. 'Let everyone prepare to travel,' he told them. 'We are going to Klanath.'
'Aye,' the First of the Ten said, saluting crisply. Followed by the others, he hurried away.
Tuft stared at Derkin and shook his head. 'If s impossible,' he said. 'We'll never get past an entire brigade in that pass with barely two hundred fighters.'
'We aren't going through the pass,' Derkin snapped. 'We're going over it.'
The man blinked, then looked at the high, sheer walls of mountain climbing toward the sky. 'No man could climb that,' he muttered.
Beside him, Calan Silvertoe grinned. 'We aren't men,' he reminded the human. 'We're dwarves.'
First light of a new morning touched the mountaintops and reflected downward to light the lower slopes. Where Tharkas Camp had once stood, now there was nothing but the riven slopes, desolate ground, and feathers of smoke that rose from a place not only abandoned, but razed and leveled. Leaving Tharkas with his Chosen Ones, Derkin Winterseed left no one behind, and nothing that could benefit human intruders. Where once there had been mine shafts, now there were only tumbled slopes. The mines had been caved in and sealed. Where there had been a few buildings, now there were piles of ash. Everything that might be useful and could be carried, the Chosen Ones had taken with them. Everything that was left, they had methodically destroyed, scattered, hidden, or buried. Except for the diminishing smoke from the ashes and the scars left on the land by two years of human-directed mining, there might never have been a place called Tharkas Mines. A stranger viewing the scene on this morning would have seen no trace of life anywhere about-unless he looked upward.
There, a pair of miles away and half a mile above, a winding string of tiny dots moved on the sheer face of Tharkas Heights. In a place where no human could have gone, on a sheer, nearly vertical granite slope that no human could have scaled, Derkin Winterseed and the Chosen Ones crept upward, climbing toward the crest above the west side of Tharkas Pass. By rope and hammer, by spike and sling, by javelin and throw-line, by hand-and toehold, hoist, and piton, and by sheer, stubborn determination, the dwarves worked their way upward, doing the thing that was as much second nature to dwarves as was delving or metalcraft-climbing.
And those who could not climb-a few of the mine dwarves who were sick or injured, old Calan Silvertoe because he had only one arm, and Tuft Broadland because he was human-were hoisted, lifted, and carried in slings as baggage. For Tuft, it was an experience he would never forget. As they neared the top, he found himself swinging in space over a ledge, the nearest horizontal surface thousands of feet below him as he clung to a flimsy rope rising slowly to the tugs of a pair of burly dwarves perched precariously on an impossible slope above.
'If I ever get out of this,' he swore over and over, 'I hope I never see another mountain.'
