Bram’s mouth twisted in a snarl. “Chara,” he muttered. “And Corian.” With a lunge, he tried to get to his feet. His hands went out, searching for a weapon — or for a throat to throttle. Grif Newgrass punched him cruelly in the stomach, then kicked his feet from under him. “You just don’t understand, do you, Bram?” he spat. “Riffin Two-Tree and his soldiers are dead, and you’re not in charge any more. We are.”
“Told you those women would get his attention,” another man chuckled. “The trademaster’s wife and his daughter. Just say the word, Grif, an’ I’ll see to both of them, myself.”
The dark-bearded one ignored him, gazing indifferently at Bram Talien. “That’s why,” he said, casually. “Right there’s the reason why you and everybody else here will do exactly as you’re told.” He glanced outside, then turned again, a cruel smile parting his beard. “Oh, and don’t expect any help from the Golash bunch. Grayfen’s people have them, too, just like we have you.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Bram gasped. “The dwarves …”
“… might never know what hit’em,” Grif shrugged. “Or maybe they will, and they’ll fight. If so, you and your ‘good citizens’ will help us.”
“Never!” Bram spat.
“Oh, I expect you will. After all, we’re all human. When it comes right down to it, humans will side with humans against a bunch of ugly dinks.”
*
Somewhere beyond the captured caravan, beyond sight of Bram Talien but not far away, the rivers called Hammersong and Bone flowed through their valley. Just across, the camps of the humans spread to the foot of the terraces, which rose in methodical, precise steps toward the west wall of Thorin Keep.
Mighty Thorin stood above it all, massive and shuttered behind great gates. Yet still the call for Balladine — the chorus of the thunder-drums — rang through the mountains.
Soon, the gates would open. Then Thorin would also be open — to attack.
In a magically protected hut among the encampments, two embers of red glowed in the dark interior beyond a low portal. Grayfen Ember-Eye rested, preparing for tomorrow. With his eyes removed, he was free of the searing pain they always brought him, and he could review his plans.
He could only estimate the strength of the dwarven fortress. Humans had been inside the place, as far as the great hall called Grand Gather, but he knew of none who had been beyond. It was reasonable to assume, though, that the great foundries and smelters lay beyond, and the shops and sleeping quarters. There would be some internal defenses, of course, but nothing that his hordes could not overcome.
How many dwarves were there? No one seemed to know, but it was assumed that there were several thousand at least. The big cavern of Grand Gather, which some people had seen, would hold several thousand. But Grayfen was not worried by that. Even if there were five thousand dwarves in that great lair, he still had the forces to outnumber them. And once inside, numbers would prevail.
The gates would open for Balladine. Once open, it required only a first assault force to hold them open until his men could get inside. And Grayfen had the means to hold the gates. The magic imposed upon him long ago by that sorcerized dwarf was a wild magic, and hard experience had taught Grayfen that his use of it was limited. But he had learned some uses, and they would serve him well at Thorin.
Resting, he wished that he could truly sleep, but darkness would not come. Resting on their pedestal, the two red orbs gazed from the hut at the red panorama beyond, and as always, Grayfen saw what they saw. In bright red hues, the scene lay there before his removed eyes — the fortress of the dwarves.
Great, planted terraces climbed the mountainside like huge steps. At the back of the uppermost terrace stood Thorin Keep, a monolithic structure of stone blocks lined with balconies and flanked by the two lower sentinel towers. The third and highest tower, called the First Sentinel, stood on the slope above the keep, a tall, stone spire overlooking all of Thorin.
Below the lowest balconies were the great gates, and behind the gates — deep within the mountain itself, beyond the stores and trade stalls — was the gigantic cavern called Grand Gather. That much of Thorin, Grayfen knew by heart. What lay beyond was only conjecture, but there was no doubt that there were smelters, foundries, and forges. The clouds of steam that rose from the mountain peak far above and beyond Thorin Keep said that they were there, somewhere below.
No human knew exactly what lay beyond Grand Gather, but that would change soon. Grayfen would know, and it would all be his.
7
No human knew what lay beyond Grand Gather, nor had any ever guessed the extent of Thorin. For what lay beyond the big cavern was most of Thorin. The visible face of Thorin Keep, the flanked gates, even Grand Gather itself, were only the antechambers of a huge complex where most of the Calnar lived their lives without ever seeing the world outside their mountain — or having any desire to.
Deep within the mountain, beyond Grand Gather, was an entire city built around a huge, cylindrical shaft that was the heart of Thorin. At the bottom of the shaft were the smelters, where vast, glowing fires never cooled. Above, at the next level, were foundries set in a circular cavern whose center was the great shaft. Above that, another “ring” cavern had been delved, with a ceiling that sloped upward toward the center shaft. Here were the forges of Thorin, a hundred feet below the grand concourse which was the city’s central district.
The great airshaft rose through this, up and up, ringed by delved caverns at regular intervals. Near the central shaft at each level were markets and stalls, shops and storage rooms, the quarters of wardens and marshals, and the manufactories where large implements and structures were assembled. Beyond, in each ring level, were the homes of the people of Thorin.
As the day of Balladine approached, Colin Stonetooth led an inspection tour of all central levels and nodded his approval. “We have always known that the day would come when Thorin would be threatened,” he told his wardens. “It is for this reason that nothing beyond Grand Gather has ever been opened to outsiders. Our greatest strength lies not in what others know of us, but in what they don’t know or even suspect.”
Tera Sharn, following along with her brother Tolon, shook her head. “Those people out there, waiting for the Balladine … they haven’t been enemies. They are our neighbors.”
“Some of them,” Willen Ironmaul corrected. “Have you looked out at the valley, Tera? I have. Never have I seen so many humans before. There are thousands of them, everywhere one looks. If every human in Golash and Chandera were there, it would not account for half that crowd.”
“I have seen,” Tolon Farsight breathed. “And I do not like what I have seen.”
“But Chandera and Golash are there!” Tera persisted. “Their banners fly above their caravans as always. They are at the front of the assemblage.”
“With many strangers just beyond,” Bardion Ledge, the waste warden, reminded her.
“Their banners are there,” Cullom Hammerstand agreed, “but where are Garr Lanfel and Riffin Two-Tree? They have not come to the gates to hail us, as they did in past years. Not even Bram Talien has come, seeking ale and news. It is strange, at least.”
“Ominous,” Tolon said darkly.
Tera Sharn lowered her eyes, still shaking her head. “I hope there is some … some harmless explanation.”
“I hope so, too,” Colin Stonetooth laid a gentle, powerful hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I pray to Reorx and all the covenant gods that tomorrow’s dawn will bring nothing more than the opening of a fine Balladine.”
“But until we know,” Willen Ironmaul muttered, “we keep our tools to the left.” The captain of guards turned to Wight Anvil’s-Cap, delvemaster of Thorin. “Are the inner gates prepared, Delvemaster?”
“They’re as ready as a thing can be that has never been tested,” the old dwarf growled.
“Tested?” A thin smile spread the whiskers on Colin Stonetooth’s face. “Wight, if you can devise a test for something that, once fallen, can never be raised again, I’d like to see it.”
