strangers from the west had their breakfasts, tended their livestock, and began taking down their travel tents. They were preparing for a march, and the dwarves above, at North-gate, watched curiously as the pace of activity increased its tempo.
From such a distance, the tiny figures by the stream seemed to all be moving in unison, going about their various morning chores, but with a visible rhythm, as though there were music there, and they were all listening to it.
Then the wind shifted a bit, wafting up the slope, and the guards on the ledge heard it, too. The faint sound was that of a single drum, beating softly and steadily, a deep, throbbing rhythm that seemed to touch the dwarven soul. In fascination, the guards on the mountain watched and listened, then snapped to quick attention as a platoon of the elite guard stepped through the open gate into the dawn light.
The new arrivals spread out, looking up the slope above Northgate, down the slope below the wall, and down both climbing ramps. When their surveillance was complete, they spread apart and saluted. Jeron Redleather stepped out into the morning, followed by Dunbarth Ironthumb and old Swing Basto, chieftain of the Theiwar.
Like the guards, the three leaders gazed curiously out across the westward valley, where the strangers were packing their animals and rolling their tents. The smoke that had floated above the encampment was gone, the cookfires extinguished. Obviously, the strangers were ready to move out.
'Is there any sign yet of their leader?' Jeron asked one of the guards, who held a seeing-tube.
'Haven't seen him,' the dwarf answered. 'At least we haven't seen that red cloak and bright armor. Maybe he changed his clothes.'
'If he did, he could be anywhere over there, and we wouldn't spot him,' another guard said. 'Nobody has had a good look at him yet.'
Dunbarth Ironthumb had wandered to the wall, and stood there now, listening intently. 'That drum,' he muttered. 'There is something about that drum…'
'What is it?' Jeron asked. 'Is the drum talking?'
'No, it's just singing. But there is something about that rhythm. It's like something I should remember, something I should understand. But I'm sure I've never heard it before.'
'Maybe your ancestors heard something like it,' Jeron suggested. 'You Hylar have always been drum people.'
'Yes, possibly,' the Hylar agreed. Still, though, he listened, feeling as if the faint, haunting beat were talking to him personally. Among the guards, some of the other Hylar had similar expressions of puzzlement.
Even without the seeing-tubes, they could see the people out in the valley scurrying into formation, bright cloaks swirling, bright armor flashing as they made ready to cross the stream. The long line of carts and pack animals was brought forward, and on the flanks, dwarves in bright costume climbed aboard their saddled mounts and wheeled into position. The red-and-gray company assembled, mounted, and rode across the stream, bright water splashing under the hooves of their horses. There was, though, no sign of the red-cloaked figure who had led them when they were first seen.
When they were across, all the rest began to move, crossing rank by rank and group by group to take up their march positions. It looked as though a whole city were on the march.
'There certainly are a lot of them,' Jeron noted as the strangers spread and advanced, heading toward Thorbar-din. 'Thousands of them.'
'My guards estimate at least nine thousand,' Dunbarth told him. 'Maybe more than that. I can't imagine where they came from. I don't recall there being anything west of here larger than an occasional Neidar village. But by Reorx, there are as many people down there as there are in all of Hybardin.'
'Speaking of Hybardin,' Jeron said, 'do you know whether any of your people might have been prowling my shore last night? The guards didn't see anyone, but there was a Hylar boat at the dock this morning, and nobody around to account for it.'
'You, too?' Swing Basto asked. 'I've had a dozen reports of prowlers wandering around Theibardin during the night. And one of my water-pipers swears he turned around and saw the face of Harl Thrustweight looking at him.'
'Too much ale.' Jeron grinned. 'Or too much imagination. Harl Thrustweight, you say?'
'No, not Harl Thrustweight. Just his face. There wasn't any body attached to it.'
'Definitely ale,' Jeron repeated. 'Ale, and possibly a troubled conscience. That would account for seeing ghosts.'
'That water-piper had nothing to do with the Hylar chief's accident,' the old Theiwar blustered. 'And even if anybody in my thane did, they're all long gone now.'
'Hush!' Dunbarth raised a commanding hand. 'Listen!'
Out in the valley, the entire caravan of strangers was now across the little stream and approaching at a stately, steady pace. The soft drum still throbbed its haunting rhythm, but it was louder now, as though mufflings had been removed. And another drum had joined its voice, adding a stirring counterpoint to the beat. As they listened, another drum joined in, and another, each adding a new tone and dimension to the growing sound.
'What is that?' Jeron rasped. 'Are they saying something? Is it a signal?'
Before Dunbarth could answer, a gray-haired old Hylar hurried onto the ledge, glanced about, then pulled a sheet of rough paper and a graphite stick from his robe. Those around him were a bit surprised to see old Chane Lowen out and about at such an early hour, though as lore-keeper of Thorbardin, he generally came and went as he pleased. Listening intently, the old dwarf began making quick, strange marks on his paper, in time with the drumbeats. Jeron Redleather glanced over the newcomer's shoulder and scowled. He had never been able to decipher either the signals that the Hylar vibrars sent, or the odd, curled runes by which they were recorded.
'If they're talking,' Dunbarth answered Jeron's question, 'it's no drum language I recognize.' He turned to the signal-master. 'Chane, do you…?'
'Hush!' Chane rasped, frowning and scribbling.
For long minutes, the chant of the drums grew on the wind, while Chane Lowen scribbled its tones, rhythms, and nuances. Then he pulled an old, yellowed scroll from his robe and unrolled it. For a moment he held both papers before him, comparing them. Then he looked up, his old eyes bright with awe and excitement. 'It is!' he said. 'It truly is!'
'It is what?' Dunbarth prodded.
'Here, look at this!' Chane thrust the ancient scroll at him. 'This has been handed down for centuries. It was among the scrolls of Mistral Thrax. It is from the old times, from the first Hylar. Or before. It is…' He cocked his head, listening. 'I've studied this, but never heard it before. It has never been played in these mountains. But this scroll is what those drums are singing. Listen! It is truly beautiful.'
'I agree.' Dunbarth nodded. 'If s pretty. But what is it?'
'A drum-song from long ago, from a place very far away. It was the song of summer solstice, there.'
'Summer solstice?' Jeron Redleather cocked a bushy, golden brow. 'But it is barely spring.'
'The song was used to call assembly,' the old Hylar continued. 'It was the song of festivals and trading time. It was the Call to Balladine.'
'Legends of ancient Thorin,' Dunbarth mused. 'Maybe there really was such a place.'
'A trading call,' Jeron studied the throng in the valley suspiciously. 'Maybe they truly are here to trade. We'll see.'
'Traders who march like an army?' Swing Basto growled. 'And why would traders demand to meet with the Council of Thanes? It's obvious, those people intend to invade Thorbardin.'
'In that case,' Jeron assured him, 'we'll do what we always do. We'll close the gates until they go away.'
'Do what we always do,' Dunbarth muttered. 'Sometimes I wonder…' He didn't complete the thought, and Jeron Redleather only glanced at him and shrugged. Dunbarth could be moody sometimes, like all Hylar, and Jeron had heard him complain many times that the people of Thorbardin had lived within a shell so long that they were no better than turtles. In a way, Jeron agreed with him, but there wasn't much that could be done about it. The entire purpose of Thorbardin was its impregnability. The under-mountain fortress was created to give the dwarven thanes a secure, unassailable place where they could live safe from intrusion. In Thorbardin, the dwarves were safe from the outside world. Many of them had come, over the centuries, to feel that Thorbardin
